


if you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?

by naboojakku



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Banter, Come Marking, Consensual Blood Drinking, Daddy Kink, Darkfic, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Experimental Style, F/M, Flirting, Forced Handjobs, Forced blowjobs, Grinding, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Kylo, Human/Vampire Relationship, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Intrusive Thoughts, Kylo is 32, Light Angst, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV First Person, POV Rey (Star Wars), Porn With Plot, Possessive Kylo Ren, Praise Kink, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey is 15, Rey is a bit hypersexual, Rey is an evil lil thing aww, Strangers to Enemies to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, They're both weird, Touch-Starved, Vampire Bites, Vampires, a chef named Potato, anyone remember that meme, bottoms up and the devil laughs, brief Finn appearance, dub con, he wants to fuck she wants to bite, it’s pure chaos, kind of weird mixed with some silly moments mixed with some sad moments, technically, vampire rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboojakku/pseuds/naboojakku
Summary: Young vampire Rey meets a man who can give her a safe place to rest.She’ll take what she needs. But so will he.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 97
Kudos: 207





	1. I Don't Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling

**Author's Note:**

> **wishing it was spooky season 👻**
> 
> **🖤also thinking about _Midnight Sun_ 's release in three weeks because ive been a Twilight slut since '07**

At midnight they shoot a man dead, and I laugh because it’s not me.

They kill him on the corner of Coruscant and Crait, which is ironic because Ms Zorii’s flower stall is there too. Sprinkle some peonies and call it a funeral.

Beneath the shadowed overhang of an abandoned pawn shop, I watch closely as they search the dead man’s pockets for identification. They check his coat and even his shoes, but they still come up empty. Out of desperation a young recruit sweeps the ground around the body, like maybe he’ll find it sitting out in the open where no one else has noticed. 

Bored by their repeated scans, knowing it’ll lead to nothing, I lean back and open the wallet. It’s leather, but the cheap kind—faux quality, for someone with expensive taste but no means to afford it. I can relate to that need for more, which is why I took his Rolex too. It’s shiny and gold and heavy on my wrist. Inconceivably, it’s also genuine. 

Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters. Not when I’m still so hungry every unnecessary breath is a nightmare. 

The man grabbed my wrist when I walked past the open mouth of an alley. I sensed him a mile away, but I was bored and curious. For a vampire that’s a deadly combination, but some people are born naturally stupid. He yanked me towards him, and I went willingly, wrinkling my nose at the smell of him. It was easy to ignore the sweat and grime, but even his blood carried an unappetizing scent. Like shoe polish. 

But I let him shove me up against a wall and grope my chest anyway because I like to have a reason. Not that I need a reason, of course. My instincts are natural. Everybody says so. But sometimes, if I do things just to do them, if I commit _heinous acts_ without a viable excuse, a vicious little worm appears in my stomach and eats away at my mood until I’m consumed by bad feelings. I don’t like that worm—thus, the act of helplessness.

Men enjoy it the most. They get all breathy and dark-eyed as they touch me, so caught up in sensation they don’t notice my eyes or my pallor or the coldness. This is how I know men are greedy creatures. They’ll touch a corpse and get a hard-on. Selfish.

What about _me_? I need to feel good too. 

I scan his driver’s license. Dopheld Mitaka. Late twenties. Security guard. Unmarried. Creepy bastard. That about sums him up.

This whole thing’s even funnier if you know the man’s friends killed him. Dude was mid-transformation when they cocked a pistol and blew his head off. Unfortunately, I only managed a couple mouthfuls before he slipped from my grasp. Super-strength is all well and good, but only if you’re already tall and physically capable of restraining a full-grown human. Even in death I am small and thin-boned. Even in death food escapes me.

Which is _irritating_ , and the streets of Niima District are about to get a hell of a lot bloodier because of it. 

Leaving the shadows behind, I side-step a couple holding hands, eyeing their exposed wrists despite myself. Humans never interested me before—when I _was_ one—but now I’m constantly drawn by the beat of healthy hearts and the pump of blood. The human body is my siren song, and I am helpless to resist its call. 

The dead man’s comrades— _Mitaka_ , I remind myself, although the name is meaningless—debate in the street for a minute or two or three, and then they finally set about disposing of the body. Again, I laugh because it’s not me. I’ve died once before, not so long ago, and although it was only faintly unpleasant—like a bad aftertaste—I do not wish to repeat the experience. 

I laugh because they cannot kill me, even if they wish it. 

I don’t scan the streets before I leave my post. I barely wait for them to remove the body and drive away in a fancy car with a leather interior that’s now likely forever ruined. The spot where Mr. Mitaka collapsed, headless and near bloodless, is clean. No marks that say, _I was murdered here! I am dead now! Mourn me or don’t—death waits for no one!_

Knowing it’s a bad idea even as I depart from the shadows, I brush past the heavy-fisted bouncers and walk into the club. Does it need a description? Flashing, multi-colored lights above a dance floor teaming with writhing humans. Sweaty, inebriated humans. My mouth waters at the sight--or, I imagine it does--and I bite down hard on my lip, drawing no blood and feeling no pain. But the familiar habit is hard to break, even as one of the undead.

A quick scan of the room tells me all I need to know of the important players. Security. Bartender. Professional dancers. Waitstaff. Men in slim-fitting suits, women in even slimmer-fitting dresses. Long legs, thick wrists, pulse points on their necks throbbing in time to the heavy beat. I practically drool, but since I am still relatively new and care about such things as dignity, I make a conscious effort to keep my mouth shut. Fangs are still not entirely welcome, especially in places where the humans are half out of their minds with alcohol and street drugs. 

Annoyed by the denseness of the crowd, I sidle up to the bar and hover behind a big-breasted young woman until she shivers and disappears into the club. I accept the offered seat with a gentle smile and observe my fellow stool-mates. 

“What’ll it be?” The bartender, a young man in his physical prime, leans an elbow on the counter and grins. He’s muscled and moderately tall and smells like expensive cologne. The expression fades the longer he stares.

I stare back. Unblinking.

“Hey, uh, are you old enough to be here?” 

My eyes don’t move from his. They’re nice. A dark brown. “May I have a glass, please?”

The man frowns. His eyes dip from my face to my trench coat. A great purchase. (Although _purchase_ is a term I use loosely here. I’m sure the dead girl I took it from doesn’t mind very much.) The hem swirls around the backs of my knees, and it’s black, of course—the better to hide the bloodstains, my dear. 

But Mr. Bartender must sense something’s off anyway because he leans back slowly, like a deer in headlights. “A glass?” he repeats stupidly, and I suppress a sigh. Humans are so _slow_. It’s infuriating.

“Yes,” I say, and smile. My fangs are concealed for the moment, but I do it wide enough to look appropriately wolfish. Wolves are hungry, and so I am. 

God, am I hungry.

“S-sure,” he stutters, mesmerized, and stumbles down the length of the bar to select a clean glass, which he places before me on the bar. 

“A straw?” Still smiling. 

He chokes on a response and feebly fishes a white plastic straw from under the counter. 

“Thank you, Finn,” I say, absentmindedly reaching forward to pluck his nametag from his shirt pocket. I place it on the bar. “You should wear it. Finn is a good name.”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow. I watch the motion closely, fangs prickling at my gums. _Soon,_ I promise them, ignoring the ache. _Soon._

But first—the good man's retribution! Because sometimes I do nice things. Emphasis on _sometimes_. Goodness is overrated but is also, apparently, very important to the humans. 

Besides. I don’t like when men mess around with women and get away with it. Curse me a feminist, but that shit doesn’t sit right.

“T-thanks,” Finn stammers, wiping sweat from his forehead. For a moment I entertain the idea of feeding from him. He seems like a nice boy, and I’m sure his blood is clean as a whistle.

Ah, but I have my sights set on someone else.

“Mitaka,” I say, hoping to surprise him. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. _Gotcha._ “Do you know where he is?”

“Uh, n-no,” he says, avoiding my eyes, as if I haven’t seen the man in question with half a head only a short while ago. Like this dumb human could possibly hide anything from me. 

“That’s disappointing,” I murmur, dropping my gaze. I exude _you specifically have disappointed me._

“B-but you can talk to his partner,” Finn adds quickly, eager to please. Pleased, I hold back a smile. “His name’s Hux. Armitage Hux. He’s here tonight.”

I burn at the information but manage to keep my tone polite and vaguely uninterested. “And where may I find this Hux?”

Finn jerks his head towards the upper level. “Roped-off section on the second floor. He’s pale. Looks like he ate something that disagreed with him.”

Now I let the smile flow across my lips, unspooling like a ray of light. “That’s a very good description. Thank you, Finn.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers, watching me with eyes as wide and guileless as a toddler’s. It’s endearing, if not slightly off-putting. He’s a grown man; shouldn’t he have divested himself of such innocence by now? 

My lip curls as I turn away. He won’t present much of a challenge, so I banish him from my mind the second he’s out of my line of sight. Boring, boring, boring. Give me a real fight. 

On the second floor, I scan the room and find Armitage Hux immediately. He’s standing by an empty armchair, arms crossed, a peevish look on his face. A tall man, thin and so white I can nearly see the outline of his bones, Hux is observing the relative peace of the VIP section. Well, maybe not VIP, but certainly exclusive. Thousand dollar suits and Italian loafers on every man. The women are dressed less expensively, but then, they are dressed... _less._

I step up next to Hux and tug meekly on his jacket sleeve. With an irritated glance, he turns his attention to me. I know what he sees: a young teenager, average height, rail-thin, faint green eyes, lightly tanned skin offset by a strange pallor, tight black clothes. Unremarkable, for the most part. 

“Yes?” His tone is just as peevish as his expression. A smile edges at the corners of my lips. Oh, yes, this was the right decision. 

“Can you help me?” I whisper, staring at him with tear-filled eyes. There’s no fluid in my body, which is unfortunate when it comes to moments like this one, but a few drops of water here and there and boom—instant crying face. Works wonders on men. 

“What do you want?” Hux demands, shaking me off his sleeve like I’m nothing more than an annoying pest. “Go.” A shooing motion. 

My body sways forward, acting independently of my mind. Fangs poke from my gums. I want to rip his throat out, I want it _so bad_ —

“Mister,” I say weakly, lowering my voice, “I’m lost. I need help.”

He shoots me a look of disgust. “That’s not my problem.”

Bored by his resistance, I grab his wrist and apply the slightest bit of pressure, so, _so_ carefully. _Don’t break his arm, don’t break his arm, don’t—_ My true strength is as yet unknown. I’ve flipped a few cars and toppled some redwood trees, but I have yet to try my hand at an airplane or building. All in good time.

Hux flinches in surprise and looks down at me, uncrossing his arms. I widen my eyes again, and some of the annoyance fades from his face. His muscles unclench. _Good boy._

“You’re lost?” he repeats uncertainly. 

I sniffle, lower lip quivering. “Please. I need—“ 

He nods once, resigned. A quick gesture to someone across the room—a guard—and then he’s leading me into a hallway behind the scenes. The music fades a bit, and although the lights are still dim, as per the club’s aesthetic, there’s slightly more illumination here, dispelling the illusion that secrets are safe here and people may become _other_ within these walls. 

Hux halts suddenly and gives me a cursory onceover. “You don’t look old enough to be here.”

I lean against the cement wall and tilt my head, hands locked behind my back. “How old do I look?” 

Hux frowns, sensing a trap but unable to see it. “Young. Too young. How did you get in?”

I brush his question aside. “What’s your name?”

He rubs a hand tiredly over his forehead like I’ve given him a headache. That must be a record. It’s only been one minute and fifty-two seconds. “You can call me Hux.”

My smile sharpens. “Do you know Dopheld Mitaka?”

Hux stills, hand drifting back to his side. “Mitaka,” he repeats slowly, and I wait impatiently for his dumb brain to catch up. “Yes, I knew him.”

 _Knew_. A slip. Careless.

“Mitaka told me you raped his girlfriend,” I say, sighing. “That’s really upsetting.”

Hux gapes at me, eyes like saucers. It’s extremely unappealing. I hope he’s aware.

“Yes,” I continue mildly, eyeing both ends of the hallway, “it’s a shame. Mr. Mitaka was so distressed. He might not have touched me, and if he had not touched me, he might have lived. But—“ And here I shrug, smiling sheepishly. “—we all make mistakes.”

His heart stutters in his chest—an engine on the brink of cutting out. The sound propels me into action.

My fangs descend. “Isn’t that right, Armitage?”

The man carefully steps back, fingers twitching near the grip of his pistol.

“None of that,” I coo, and in the next second I’m on him. 

We bang into the wall hard enough to leave a sizable dent. My fangs slide into his neck like a knife through butter. The still new but increasingly familiar sensation sends a shiver through me. _Don’t kill him, don’t kill him_ runs through my mind on a loop as he staggers back against the wall, mouth opening in a wordless cry for help. I restrain his hands and press my knee to his crotch. 

_Pain_ , I tell him silently. _I want this to hurt._

Hux moans as I drink, inhaling his blood like he inhales air—desperate, gasping, panicked. I need him more than he will ever need anyone or anything. His blood tastes better than Mitaka’s did—sharp and clean and faintly bitter, with traces of alcohol splashed throughout. Whiskey, maybe, or bourbon. 

Mouthful after mouthful goes down smooth, and I clutch his shoulders, eyes slipping closed as the blood settles. Ecstasy. Pure ecstasy. I shiver and suppress a moan of my own. 

_Don’t kill him, don’t kill him!_

Ah. Right.

With no small amount of control, I drag my mouth from his throat and stagger back against the opposite wall. Hux immediately clasps a shaky hand to his bleeding wound, eyes fluttering. He slumps to the floor, whimpering and moaning, before abruptly passing out. I study him, even as my senses burst with renewed sensitivity. A conversation in the women’s bathroom on the first floor tells me everything I need to know about Bernadette’s cheating boyfriend’s raging case of chlamydia. 

_Too much?_ I ask myself. 

Blood trickles from Hux’s wound as he drools and twitches in his sleep.

 _Too much._

Well, you know what they say. Practice makes perfect. 

Humming, I grab the fallen water glass from the floor and hold it against Hux’s neck. The flow is still steady enough to fill the cup roughly halfway, which is more than I anticipated. With a cheery red smile, I stick a straw in the glass and drink thirstily. Almost like a real smoothie. 

There’s a soft noise from the end of the hall, and my eyes flicker over just in time to catch a glimpse of a retreating figure. The build is that of a man’s—tall, broad-shouldered—but then he’s gone, disappearing back into the crowded club. 

My fingers twitch at my sides, and I follow. Hux groans behind me, but I merely flap my hand at him. _Oh, shut up._

The roped-off area reveals my mystery man. He’s sitting in the chair that Hux had been standing next to earlier. Black hair and eyes, big and tall and dressed not in a suit but casually—jeans and a black shirt. His body thrums with energy. Another man in an adjacent chair laughs and raises his glass in a toast, but my mystery man doesn’t drink. 

Instead he looks at me. 

We lock eyes, and in them I see a promise. Something decidedly dark. A thrill shoots through my body, a zing of electricity unfelt since before my transformation. He observes me for some time, gaze sliding from my face down my body, pausing on my legs before they drift back to my face. Odd, yes, but his perusal doesn’t alarm me. Too long in the shadows has me desperately craving attention. I don’t shift or blink or even pretend to breathe. 

My mystery man sets aside his tumbler and extends a hand. The gesture floods through me like a song. I amble over, trying not to seem too willing. Even from across the room I can smell him. Like sugar and syrup and sweetness all rolled into one. My mouth yearns to latch on to his neck while my body fights to maintain a casual pose. Hands in my coat pockets, eyes heavy-lidded. I want his blood and his body so badly I can feel it like an ache. Not nearly so terrible as my hunger ache, but close enough to have me second-guessing myself. 

_You should go,_ I scold myself, placing my empty glass on a side table. _Get out of here. You got what you came for. You’ve drunk enough for one night._

But that’s the joke, isn’t it? There’s never enough. 

I reach my mystery man, and in a flash he’s pulling me into his lap. I let him, fingers twitching. He adjusts me so I’m straddling him, my back to the rest of the group. Conversation dips to a low murmur, and I sense their eyes on us, but no one will say anything. This man emits power like a small sun--everyone else merely drifts in a singular orbit, with him always at their center-- and I doubt his activities are often questioned. 

“Hello,” I say, tilting my head. Up close, he is beautiful. A straight nose, nice big lips, thick eyebrows, sharp features, a mole here and there on his neck and face. Thick, silky black hair. Eyes that’ll make any woman melt. He’s pale and warm and big like a bear. Not hairy, though. Not scary. Just...big. 

“Hello, little one,” he says in a voice like smoke and whiskey and midnight. “What are you doing out so late?”

Time is no longer relevant to me, but I allow myself a brief moment of distraction in order to find out just _how_ late. Nearly one in the morning. Again, meaningless, but to humans time still retains a degree of importance. 

“I was hungry,” I tell him, eyes locked on his face. There’s something about his visage that draws me in. He’s familiar and yet entirely new. 

“ _Was_?” He gently taps a finger to my mouth, and when he pulls it away, I see there’s a small smear of Hux’s blood on the tip. Oops.

I nod, mesmerized by the sight. 

“Not anymore?” he asks, coaxing an answer out of me. Drawn by my life’s desire so close and yet so far from my lips, I sway forward, but his other hand tightens on my waist, and I still. He could dispose of the blood with a casual flick, and then I will be angry, and our time together ruined. 

“Not anymore,” I agree softly. We’re talking low enough so we can’t be overheard, but I sense the other humans straining to listen. It’s annoying.

“Do you have a name?” His voice is gentle and low like a soothing vibration, and I want to tell him everything, I do, but—

“Everyone has a name.” Impatient, I latch on to his hand, keeping it in place. The blood on the tip of his finger glimmers enticingly. My mouth would be absolutely flooded with saliva, if I had any.

“Won’t you tell me yours?” the man murmurs, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I stare at the smear of blood as if I can inhale it through sight alone. 

_Give it to me._

I draw his hand to my mouth, but he resists, muscles in his forearms and biceps flexing. Frustrated, I glare at him. Of course I can just use force, but that might make this exchange unpleasant, and I’ve been having such a good night. 

“Name, little one.” 

“Rey,” I snap, then yank his finger up and shove it into my mouth. 

A single droplet is just that—a drop in an otherwise very large ocean of blood available to me. But I’ve been so starved lately that even a simple taste like this is enough to set the world tilting on its axis. My eyes drift shut, and I swirl my tongue around his finger, determined to consume every last drop. I moan, once, before remembering my audience. An audience who watches, rapt and open-mouthed, like I am nothing more than a spectacle. 

Which pisses me off.

My eyes snap open, and in the mystery man’s pupils I see they’re flame red. Incensed by the unwanted attention, I whip my head to the side and let loose a snarl. My fangs shoot down threateningly. A glass shatters, and I hear _vampire vampire she’s a vampire_ coast through the room on a wave of precious breath. In minutes the whole club will know. For most people it will be nothing but an added excitement to a night of fun. For others, it will be an incentive to leave. 

The heavy-jowled man to our left laughs nervously. “Look what we have here! A vampire, as I live and breathe!” He laughs again at his joke, but I ignore him. I ignore them all. Instead I stare at my mystery man, who is looking back at me with an odd expression. Maybe he’s scared now too. The idea of a vampire is much more tantalizing than the reality. 

But no, that can’t be it. He doesn’t _smell_ afraid. He smells…. Hm. I don’t know.

The other man continues, oblivious. “She’s quite young though, isn’t she?” Then, in a thoughtful sort of way, “ _Quite_ young.” 

My spine stiffens, and I shift in my mystery man’s lap. “What is your name?” I demand, lifting my chin. Most people don’t take me seriously, as I am small and fine-boned and, of course, a girl. I must show that I am ten times tougher than anyone else in the room at any given time. Even then it might not be enough. Usually I must make them bleed, and only then does the understanding come. 

But my mystery man does not answer. He must not be intimidated. Annoyed, I grasp his shirt collar and pull until the fabric stretches tight against the back of his neck. He doesn’t move forward, but his chin dips until we’re nearly nose-to-nose. My fangs have retracted, but now they peek out threateningly. 

“ _Name._ ” 

“Leave,” he commands suddenly, staring into my eyes, and an ache similar to that of my hunger rolls through me. 

Fine. 

Since my transformation, my body has always reacted at a speed twice that of my mind, and it does not fail me now. I’m off his lap in less than a second, turning for the door as my thoughts whirl and twirl and overlap in a mad, confused chaos. 

_You’re not wanted here. You’re not wanted anywhere._

_No home for one of your kind. No solace. No belonging._

Alone. 

Desperate now to escape, I scan the room for my next victim, but I manage only two steps and then I’m yanked backwards. Big hands on my waist, fingers digging into the exposed sliver of skin above the waistband of my jeans. I slide into his lap again, and his hands press lightly against my stomach. 

He’s quick—for a human. 

I instinctively reach for his hands and squeeze—not hard enough to break bones but certainly hard enough to hurt. A warning. _Release me._

But he merely binds his arms around my body, caging me against his chest, and on my neck I feel his breath—hot and delicious and _alive_. The reminder does something to me, something that makes me uncomfortable. He’s alive, and he is holding me. He’s alive, and he smells of something akin to bloodlust--without the blood. Unnerved, I kick my feet, rattling the coffee table, but he does not release me.

“Not you, love,” he says softly, and kisses the back of my neck. My body _sings_ at the contact. 

All around us, movement. All around us, a dispersal. A mass exodus. The men and women, waitstaff and guards, rise from the couches and straighten from the walls. They head for the stairs or the hallway, all of them silent. I don’t sense upset or rage. I don’t even sense disappointment. They’re missing out on quite the spectacle, after all. 

They just...leave.

My mystery man catches the eye of a lingering guard. He nods once, and the guard follows the laughing man who called me _quite young_. I feel his intent from across the room: dark and empty and yawning, like a black hole. Death, my old friend. 

“Kylo,” he says then, voice still low but softer somehow. “My name is Kylo.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. An unusual name, but very fitting. Heavy and mysterious and hot. _Burning_ hot.

“What are you doing out so late?” he repeats, like my response really matters. He twists me around again so we’re nearly chest to chest, my legs draping on either side of the chair. I like sitting like this. It’s comfortable, and I know I have his full attention. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” I deadpan, unsmiling.

His lips curve, and I can’t help but analyze every inch. They look soft and appetizing—as appetizing as they can to someone with no real need for food. I want to lick them.

“Are you still hungry?” 

My eyes snap to his again. In them I see my hunger reflected back at me. 

“I’m always hungry,” I say simply. It’s true. The ache never leaves. 

Kylo sighs and nuzzles my neck. His hands slide from my hips to my waist. _Big hands_ , I think with relish, _big, huge hands._ Hands that can crush and likely have. Mm. I want them around my throat while I drink his blood. 

“You’re a tiny thing,” he murmurs, inhaling my hair. Probably smells like dirt. “Like a doll.”

“Not fragile like one,” I retort, offended by his comparison. Me, a _doll_? Perhaps, but one who can snap his neck like a twig. 

“No,” he rumbles, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes. “Definitely not fragile.”

Blood hums beneath his skin, so tantalizingly close. Again, I imagine my mouth watering. My limbs twitch, fingers gliding around the sides of his neck, and I inhale deeply through my nose. His smell is fucking _intoxicating._ I need him. 

I _need_ him. 

My body sways again, and Kylo senses my wavering control. He pushes my coat from my shoulders, and I hastily swipe it to the floor. His eyes rove all over my bare arms, snagging on thin bones and faded scars.

“Skinny too,” he muses, encircling my wrist with his thumb and index finger. They overlap nearly twice. 

“Uh-huh,” I say, not really listening. His pulse beats in his neck, and I find myself tapping a finger in rhythm.

“Rey,” he says suddenly—the first time he’s used my name. This startles me out of my bloodlust, and I gaze back at him. “Would you like to eat again?”

I’m nodding before the words have left his mouth. “ _Yes_.” 

He nods and smiles slowly like I’ve given him a gift. I smile back. 

“I’ll let you drink from me,” Kylo continues, and I open my mouth so my fangs can descend. He laughs then—a real laugh that pulses through me like a new heartbeat. It’s a delicious sound. “Patience, little one.”

I grumble but wait for him to finish.

“I’ll let you drink from me,” he repeats, rubbing circles on my hips, “but on one condition.”

“Fine,” I say, pouting and squirming in his lap. _Need it, need it, need it._ His blood is a static roaring in my ears. 

Kylo leans close and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Come home with me.”

“Okay,” I whine, anxious now. Isn’t he going to let me drink? He can’t just _say_ he will and then not do it. That’s not fair. “Okay, okay!”

I expect him to reprimand me or rescind his offer, but instead he nods against my cheek and slips a hand to the back of my neck. “Now be a good girl and drink your fill.”

 _I am a good girl,_ I tell myself, unreasonably pleased by the praise. _I’m very good, so let me drink!_

Kylo tilts his head back, and I dart forward before he can fend me off. Blood fills my mouth instantly—first in drops, then a steady trickle, and then in a fast, warm gush. I bounce a little, excited, and he groans deep in his chest, holding my neck tight. I suck, my mouth glued to his throat, and the world swirls around me in shades so vivid I wonder if this is the start of the true death. A death with an afterlife so beautiful and warm and breathtaking that every single lively thing pales in comparison. 

_Belonging._ The word runs through me, filling in all my gaps and crevices and holes. _Belonging._

Kylo gasps, a gutteral noise, and I worry briefly that I’m hurting him. But then my bloodlust takes over, and for several minutes I’m erased. There is no _me_ or _I_ or _she_. There is blood, and more blood, and nothing but the blood. When I return, senses blazing back to life in a snap, he’s slipped his hand under my shirt and is rubbing my spine, fingers tracing individual vertebrae.

“You’re cold,” he slurs, pressing soft, drooling kisses to my own neck. “Let me make you warm, baby.”

If only.

For the first time, as I’m polishing off a few stray drops of blood, I wish for my humanity. For life. Maybe if things were different we would make something of this. But things are not different. He is a man and I am undead, and there is only one outcome that makes sense. Either he leaves me behind, or I drain him--accidentally or, perhaps, not so--until he’s bloodless and empty and dead. Corpses are sometimes lovely, but only if they have something to offer. 

Struggling to pull away, I whimper and nudge my forehead against his cheek. The hand on the back of my neck loosens its hold but doesn’t release me. I lick my lips again and again, near-mad with the taste of him. I could drink from him forever. Until I either sucked him dry—again, this is very likely—or I popped like an overfed tick. 

“Is your tummy full, little one?”

“Yes,” I murmur, happy and sated. I place my chin on his shoulder and tuck my fists between us. Warm. Close. Safe. “Thank you.”

Kylo doesn’t answer; he’s too busy kissing my throat. I let him touch me under my shirt, and when his hips arch, pushing a strange hardness into me, I spread my thighs around his hips so he has more room. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his hardness against me. “That feels nice. That feels _really_ nice.” 

I mumble and close my eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Still strong. Still alive. He probably likes it that way, but the evil little worm in my head and stomach insists he’ll enjoy death too. Or perhaps an in-between state. He can keep me warm and I can have my fill of him. 

Ah, decisions. 

Kylo swallows and unbuttons my jeans so he can slide his hands around to my backside. He cups my bare bottom in two huge palms, shoving my panties aside, and I wiggle happily at his touch. He’s not fearful of or disgusted by me. 

“Kylo?” 

“Yes, baby.”

“You taste nice.”

“So do you,” he says, and then grunts when I giggle sweetly and clutch him close. His hips continue to move under me. I have to hold his shoulders so I don’t slide away.

“Mm.”

“You like that?” His breath quickens. 

“Feels good.”

My toes curl as his hardness hits a particularly sensitive spot, and a pleasant tingling starts between my legs. I let out a soft _ah_ and roll my hips, grinding into his lap to get better friction.

Kylo exhales through his teeth and jerks against me. A hand gently guides my head off his shoulder, and when he presses his lips to mine I kiss him back eagerly. His taste is nearly as lovely as his blood, and I lick the inside of his mouth in a near-frenzy. Kylo moans into my mouth and tightens his hold on my bottom so we’re molded together. 

He sucks and nibbles on my lips, and when my fangs shoot out again by accident he makes a strangled noise and runs his tongue over the points. I impulsively bite down, catching his tongue between my teeth, and warm blood fills my mouth again. Oh yes, oh yes--I could keep him forever.

I could. 

_Decisions._

I whimper and snuggle close, lapping up his blood as it fills both our mouths. Some of it dribbles out, mixed with saliva, but neither of us stops. Kylo’s hips stutter, and his body goes taut. He makes several pained noises, shaking and panting while I lick him clean of blood. 

“Oh, baby,” he says, over and over again. “ _Yes_ , baby. Good girl.”

Eventually the flow ceases as the wound closes up, and I drop my head to his shoulder, smiling blissfully. Kylo strokes my hair, chest rising and falling quickly in the aftermath. He swallows a few times and periodically squeezes my waist, as if checking I’m still there.

The club pulses and shakes around us, music blaring, smells intermingling, but it all seems so very distant. Here it is warm and quiet, and I am not hungry, I am not struggling to tear out the throats of every person in the building, I am not alone. 

I am not alone. 

“You should’ve killed him,” Kylo says, mouthing along the curve of my neck. His lips are wet, and I shiver at the feel of them on my bare skin.

In a post-bloodlust doze, I sniff and mumble, “But I did.”

“No,” he says, and in that one word it becomes clear—he knows I had a hand I killing Dopheld Mitaka. I think maybe I should care more. “Hux. You should’ve kept drinking.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” I mutter, pushing my nose into the curve of his neck. Smells good. Smells _right_. 

“Why not?”

I shrug, and his hands glide up to cup my ribs. “Too messy.”

“I like it messy,” he rumbles, dragging his tongue along the underside of my jaw. 

“I like you,” I slur, clinging tighter. _Don’t go. Don’t go. You’re mine. Don’t go._

“That’s a good thing, little one,” he says with a light laugh, kissing the crown of my head. I sense movement. He’s buttoning my jeans, adjusting his own outfit, sweeping a hand through his hair and mine. “Because I like you too. Very much.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, yawning. Not tired, exactly, but definitely in need of some down-time. Preferably cuddled against him. Preferably pressed to his throat. 

Kylo carries me like a child, one hand on my bottom and one on my back for support. I wrap myself around him. _Don’t go. Don’t go._

“Home,” he says, descending the stairs to the first floor. “You promised.”

“Mm,” I hum, gently swinging my feet. “I did.”

“If you try to leave, I’ll stop you,” he warns, sliding through a private backdoor. 

“Okay.” As if he could. 

“I’m not going to let you go,” he says slowly, as if he doesn’t believe I’m taking his first warning seriously. A big hand pats my bottom. 

“Okay,” I repeat, kissing the hollow of his throat. Adorable human and his assumptions. I‘ll leave if I want to leave, thank you very much, but lucky for him, I do not. I probably _will_ not as long as he’s alive to provide me with blood. 

“You’re mine now,” he growls, almost desperate, like he needs to really drill it home. Like he’s afraid I’ll just walk out the door as soon as we arrive.

Like he’s confused I _want_ to stay with him. 

“Okay, Kylo,” I murmur indulgently, kissing and then licking his throat, nudging the two fresh puncture wounds. “Take me home, please.” 

He grunts, apparently satisfied, and when he shifts me in his grasp to open the back door of a sleek car, I catch sight of my reflection. 

Red eyes and a wide white smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **maybe possibly will extend this in the future? 🥴 me likey evil Rey**


	2. If You Love Someone, Set Them On Fire (And Cheer!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **decided to continue with this although I only have a vague idea of where I'm going so expect irregular updates!**

His house is not a house but a mansion. Color me unsurprised. 

I suppress a sigh when the monstrosity comes into view because, really, I should’ve known. Wealthy men can’t resist showcasing their wealth. This not-so-subtle bragging is compulsory for people like him, I suppose. 

It continues to amuse me, the significance humans place on material possessions. The car, for one—it’s obviously very expensive. It smells like real leather and freshly laundered Italian suits. Before me is a veritable fortress: gatehouse, security guards, steel fence around the property—you know, the works. Pillars in front of the entrance, tall spires, separate staff quarters. All the predictable elements of a man in possession of too much money. 

The car pulls into a curved driveway, and before the chauffeur brakes to a smooth stop at the main doors I’m in the foyer, eyes wide open so I can absorb each and every baffling piece of so-called furniture. The bloodlust has settled into a low, pervasive hum, leaving me blindingly aware and responsive. 

Everything is black and white and gray. _Everything_. Walls, floors, tables, seating, staircases. A uniform color scheme, obviously intentional, with bursts of crimson red scattered throughout. From the foyer I notice a display case a dozen feet down the wide hall that’s filled with, of all things, _antique guns._

My lips twitch. Again with the vanities. I would so love to ask Kylo if these meaningless possessions will save him from a fire. Will they shield his back when a man tackles him from the side? Can they stitch together the skin of a gunshot or stab wound, perhaps? _Unlikely, no,_ and _definitely not._

The house is dead silent. I wonder briefly if anyone is sleeping upstairs. Doesn’t he have a family? He’s still relatively young—in his prime, really—and more than handsome enough to tempt hordes of single women. Is there a slim-bodied brunette waiting for him in his bed? 

Then another thought strikes, this one tinged with panic: are there children here? A little dark-headed boy in a bunk bed, perhaps, or a newborn baby girl tucked in a crib? He’s wealthy and successful and arrogant—all attributes that tend to draw in potential mates.

I scoff at myself. Of _course_ he’s married. That isn’t the important question. The important question is: should that stop me from getting what I want? 

Hm.

Kylo exits the car and speaks in a low voice to the chauffeur, a quiet man named Larkin. He begins to ask after house security measures, but his questions don’t interest me, so I block the voices out. 

Instead, I analyze the layout of the house, darting here and there until I’ve established a cohesive map of the first floor. Rooms with sofas and coffee tables and books and an abstract sculpture or two. It’s clear to me that the designer was instructed to implement a minimalist design, and they did not disappoint. The only pieces of interest are the well-curated artwork hung on the walls. The shapes are indistinct, and the canvases are, predictably, black and white, but for some reason I am drawn to them. 

In a room near the back of the house is an oil painting of a forest. There are trees and shrubs and a path winding through them. Relatively uninspired, really. Yet I gaze up at it, fascinated. Something about the landscape is familiar to me. I feel it as an echo in my bones. Painful. Almost frightening. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“An Amidala,” Kylo murmurs, sauntering into the room. He’s been leaning against the doorframe for the last two minutes and thirty-four seconds. I expected him to seek me out immediately after giving orders to his chauffeur, but apparently he is not on any time constraints because he instead watched me watch the painting. Unlike most humans, he is intrigued by rather than fearful of my existence. 

So very odd.

“One of her final pieces,” he continues, standing to the side and slightly behind me. I relax in spite of myself and pretend I'm unaware of his proximity—an instinctive response. It’s always fun to bait men who see a young girl and think to make her their own. I’ve spent my fair share of time teaching them it’s not polite to put their hands where they’re not wanted. Some lessons never stick. “Part of her Battle series.”

 _Battle_. Strange name for a forest painting. “An original?”

“Yes.” Kylo doesn’t move, but I sense his body tightening in anticipation. Interesting. “Battle of Takodana.”

The name doesn’t sound familiar, but then, I was never much into geography. We stare at the painting in silence.

“It’s boring,” I say flatly, then glide from the room before he can respond. I don’t appreciate the emotions that painting stirs in me, not one bit. 

I find a piano down the hall. Big and black and shiny like it’s been cleaned recently. In fact, I smell polish in the air, a sharp, stinging scent much like straight alcohol. It reminds me of bourbon and how the man Hux reeked of it. I flip the lid on the keys and lightly dance my fingers across the tops, not hard enough to press down. I am no pianist, although I’ve always thought, perhaps, I might sign up for lessons one day. 

That was a dream for the me I was before. 

Kylo watches from the doorway again. It’s taken him nearly twenty seconds to find me, which should tell you how truly cavernous this place is. Just like earlier, he doesn’t enter the room, but now I don’t mind—I like when he watches me. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble looking at me, unlike most people. Their gazes tend to skitter to the side when I catch them staring. It always makes me angry when they do that. Like to them I’m not real. 

If no one ever looks at you, do you exist? 

“Do you play?” I ask him. The keys seem untouched—brand new. They don’t smell like a human, and I can’t identify any thumbprints or other markings that would suggest frequent use.

He silently shakes his head. I expect a question in return, but it doesn’t come. Apparently only one of us is curious tonight. 

I glance outside the nearest window. Dawn approaches. There’s a distinct lightening of the sky on the far horizon, far too subtle for human eyes to detect. Yellows and oranges and pinks that herald a new day. I’ll have to locate an inner room soon, a room with no windows or access to the outside. Despite my very nature, I am still somehow inclined to rush into the sunlight, even knowing what it will do to this body. 

I always did have a penchant for self-destruction.

In the car, Kylo did not let me free. He’d wrapped his arms around my body, caging me to him as we sped through the darkened streets. I was still coming down from the blood high, so I allowed myself to be handled. We did not speak, but his hand would occasionally smooth down my back in a reassuring manner. The touch was nice, the silence even better, and I closed my eyes at some point so I could memorize the twists and turns. 

His house, if my calculations are accurate, and they should be, is somewhere isolated, forty-seven minutes northwest from the club, which means it’s at least half an hour from the city itself. A skip and a jump for me, but I do wonder why Kylo, an obvious businessman, chooses to be so far from the center of things.

But I will not ask for clarification. Questions suggest interest, and I don’t want him getting any ideas. 

Though his blood is wonderfully sweet, he is only a means to an end.

Seating myself on the small piano bench, I place my hands on random keys and bring up a melody I once heard from the lobby of an art museum on Bespin Boulevard. It’s soft and whimsical, the chords light; they’d floated through the air like motes of dust, lazy and unhurried. I had stopped in my tracks two blocks over and tilted my head, infatuated with the noise. But I only managed to memorize a few brief bars before the door to the museum clicked shut once more. 

I press down on the keys.

The sound is instantly and unarguably terrible. A harsh, disharmonious clashing of random notes and pitches. It rips through the massive house like a bullhorn, shattering the peace and quiet quite effectively. 

With a laugh, I smash the keys a second time. What? I am no pianist, remember? 

Kylo’s heart beats unsteadily for several seconds, and I cock my head in his direction while dishonoring his grand piano. Aside from the chauffeur, who’s still in the driver’s seat of the car, for some reason—surely he doesn’t sleep there?—and a handful of yawning staff, there doesn’t seem to be anyone nearby. Well, anyone _human_ , that is. Still, I don’t sense any immediate threats. 

Less than a minute passes, and his heartbeat slows to its normal rhythm, so I cast aside my wonder in favor of more chaotic overtures. My fingers slam down on the keys over and over again, rending the air like nails on a chalkboard. 

Finally, when I hear a maid swishing down the hall, her steps firm and annoyed, I let my hands fall from the keys. She’s coming to scold me, not knowing the master of the house is here too. My eyes are drawn once more to the window. Sunrise is minutes away. It’s time. I need to hide.

Kylo wanders to my side and cups the back of my head with a big hand. I blink up at him, analyzing his expression. It’s relatively blank, although his eyes are still dark like the night sky. He smells like bonfire smoke. Cologne? 

“I can’t stay here,” I inform him, mentally tracing the vein pulsing in his throat. Venom floods my mouth at the sight, and I rip my gaze away before the bloodlust overwhelms me. It’s been barely an hour and I’m already frothing at the mouth. 

_Can’t have that,_ I scold myself. _The big man offered you his home, Rey. Be nice to the big man!_

“Follow me,” he says in a low voice, and when I stand he links his fingers through mine. We walk side-by-side down a hallway and up a hidden staircase. The pressure of his hand is firm. Grounding. 

The second floor is much the same as the first. Familiar layout, more than a dozen rooms, priceless art on the walls, a statement piece here and there to remind visitors this is, in fact, a home and not a museum. Black and gray and white and red like a stormy sky slashed through with blood. 

My jaw tightens painfully. Everything always comes back to blood. It’s predictable and, frankly, tiring, but when I say I have a one-track mind….

We enter a bedroom. It’s large, thirty-by-thirty feet, at least—my new and improved brain is quite skilled at making calculations—with a raised bed in the middle, plump pillows arranged in two neat rows near the headboard. I spot a dresser and two tables and an abstract line painting in shades of off-white. One part of me snorts, _Oh, how pretentious,_ while another muses, _Well, at least I’ll have no trouble falling asleep._

This last thought shocks me into stillness. 

I _don’t_ sleep. Haven’t in nearly a year. 

Sometimes, in my most vulnerable moments, I forget. 

It’s true I was a human not so long ago. In a sense, it feels like both seconds and eons have passed since I could walk down the sidewalk in broad daylight, stale donut in one hand, ratty backpack in the other, headphones plugged in to block out the discordant sounds of traffic and early morning businessmen nattering away on their glass phones. I feel _ancient_ when I think of that long-ago life that’s not actually so long ago. 

Life was simple then. Not easy, not by any means, but _simple_. I never yearn for it, but I do miss the straightforwardness. Rise, school, TV, sleep. A routine, one established through a decade of careful practice.

Now all I have is time, and nothing to fill it. 

“You’ll be safe here,” Kylo tells me. He guides me to the bed and pushes gently on my shoulders until I sit. I expect this makes him feel superior—men do so love it when they can loom over a woman—but he surprises me by sinking to his knees.

“I need to run out for a few hours,” he says, staring into my eyes in a manner that’s alarmingly intimate. I don’t ask where he’s going. “Will you be okay here by yourself, little one?”

 _Little one._ I haven't decided yet if I like that name. 

I shrug. His absence will give me time to explore unobserved, if anything. “Go ahead.”

His lips press together in a tight line like I’ve said the wrong thing. I don’t want him upset with me, so I lean forward and kiss the tip of his nose. It’s warm and soft—unbearably human. The sight of it stirs something in my chest. His expression doesn’t change, but his hands lock on my calves like steel clamps. 

“Be good while I’m gone,” he orders in a rough voice. Maybe he’s getting sick. “I don’t want reports of bad behavior. Understand?”

I pout and glance surreptitiously behind me. If he’s sick I’ll definitely have to leave. Humans and their fluids make me green; if it’s not blood, I don’t want it . “Oh, but I’m never bad.”

He grumbles disbelievingly but rises to his feet and presses a hard kiss to my forehead. “We’ll see.”

Twenty-three seconds later the front door clicks shut. The locks glide into place. 

Slowly, I touch the spot on my forehead where his lips pressed. This is...confusing. Isn’t he disgusted by my cold skin? Frigid and hard like a marble statue left out in mid-winter snow. It should repulse him. Most humans shrink away from me if I happen to graze them with my fingers. To them, I am something alien. Something both lesser and greater.

Something untouchable. 

With a sigh—breathing is a habit that will, I suspect, never completely desert me—I dart from my new bedroom. In less than ten seconds I shutter all the blinds in the house, yank all the curtains together, and flick off all the lights. The staff are none the wiser to my presence as I flash by, too fast for their weak eyes to track, although they’re not entirely sure what to do now that they’ve been plunged into darkness. 

Along the way I pause long enough to examine Kylo’s bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty of any personal possessions. Instead there is a bed and a towering bureau and an attached bathroom. The floor is a dark hardwood, the walls a gunmetal gray, and even the bathroom tiles are black and shiny from a recent cleaning. How very _nouveau riche._

No sign of his wife. I don’t smell her here, and there don’t seem to be any obvious “womanly” touches either. Perhaps this is a second home.

I consider this alternative carefully for three full seconds and determine that this must be the answer. This house is too bleak and empty for a family; Kylo must have another home within the city. That would explain the distancing factor—he lives there when he works and then comes to this house when he wants a break. 

A piece of paper in a hidden folder snags my attention. 

The folder is not actually very well-concealed, at least not for someone who can spot an insect from a distance of five hundred feet. It’s been shoved beneath a pile of papers on his oak desk in a meticulously organized study. Not obvious, perhaps, but clearly not meant for the eyes of strangers.

The folder itself is not exceptional, but the scent clinging to the outside stirs my memory. I’ve smelled this before. Somewhere. 

I settle in the darkened living room and flip through the contents. There’s a list. Three names, none of them familiar. 

Poe Dameron  
Phasma Tahreen  
Melfulus Snoke

Ugly names. Well, except for Phasma. That one has a nice ring to it. Puts me in mind of a constellation, perhaps, or a distant planet. Something grotesquely _whimsical_ , in any case.

I swiftly flicker through the rest of the folder’s contents. Lots of coordinates and raw data. Money numbers. Transactions. Locations. This must be some kind of ledger. I don’t much care who these people are or what they do in their daily lives, but I am curious why Kylo seems to have their activities so clearly outlined. Maybe they’re prospective business partners. He’s doing background checks on them all before moving forward. A smart decision, and yet...wouldn’t an underling be in charge of grunt work like that? 

Hm. Mysterious. 

I slip the folder back where it belongs at the bottom of the pile and dart into a different living room on the south side of the house. There, a young woman meekly dusts the mantelpiece over a yawning fireplace. Her heart thumps unevenly; she smells like fear. Probably finds the dark frightening. She doesn’t smell nearly as appetizing as Kylo, but for the time being she’ll have to do. 

I lay on my stomach, chin in my hands, and track her through hooded eyes, silent and unseen in the dark room. She doesn’t turn around, but we both know I’m there. It just takes her a few extra minutes to clue in. 

But like a good predator, I don’t move until she relaxes. Humans have always been quite deceptively skilled at convincing themselves there’s no threat even as they recognize one. 

Makes my life a lot easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **🩸v a m p🩸 Rey is quickly becoming a favorite**


	3. I'd Rather Have A Bottle In Front Of Me (Than A Frontal Lobotomy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **this rey is so funny to me**

It’s been a while since I’ve cared enough to hide a body. 

Aiming for careful but probably missing the mark by a wide margin, I sling the maid across my new bed, hastily brushing a stray drop of blood from her neck before it smears the white pillows. I stick my finger in my mouth and suck the blood off with a wet _pop_. 

_That should do it._

Wiping my hands on her outfit—can’t have any incriminating human juices on me—I survey the unconscious woman. She’s a slight thing, somewhere in her mid-thirties. Wrinkles already at the corners of her eyes, poor girl. I did manage to come at her from behind, so she never saw me advance. Hopefully her fear of the dark will remain just that and not evolve into something more paralyzing. I don’t want to contribute to her nyctophobia. 

Although, that _might_ be fun to exploit, come to think of it...

Her blood sings through my veins as I wander into a room at random. There are so many to choose from—it’s a fun gamble to see where I’ll turn up next. My body buzzes; the maid tasted like pure rust and metal, more so than anyone I’ve encountered in months, which suggests her body must be nearly devoid of external contaminants. In order to retain such an undiluted essence, she must not indulge in alcohol, takes minimal prescriptions, and doesn’t dabble in heavy drugs. Pure blood is not a favorite flavor of mine—I prefer either some sweetness or spice—but again, my options here are limited. She’ll sleep it off and be none the wiser. 

There’s a closed laptop on a sleek desk in the corner, overlooking the expansive side yard. The room is yet another study. That’s two so far. Such _extravagance_ , Mr. Kylo, sir! 

With nothing better to do, I plop myself in the swivel chair. It’s big enough to comfortably accommodate Kylo’s girth, which means it practically swallows me whole. I boot the laptop up and idly swing my feet while I wait for the stupid thing to load. Technology still works at speeds similar to that of a human, which is to say— _excruciatingly_ slow. 

The room smells strongly of Kylo’s smoky aftershave or cologne; he must spend a lot of time in here. My eyes fall on a resin statue in miniature on the top shelf of a bookcase—it’s silver and abstractly crescent-shaped. Like a blurry 3D snapshot of the waxing moon. There’s a vaguely familiar shape stuck in the resin, but I can’t quite make it out. I consider pocketing it for later examination, but I’m sure the maids would bear the brunt of his punishment should it be discovered missing. 

Not that I care if they lose their jobs, but that _would_ put a damper on my entertainment prospects. 

Kicking my feet impatiently, I tilt my head back against the chair’s cushy headrest. It’s been twenty-one seconds already—what’s the damn holdup? 

Then I realize the screen is black save for a small text box. Oh, so it’s password protected, is it? Of course it is. I run a hand down the side of my face and stare at the keyboard. This man can’t make anything easy, can he? 

But two attempts later and I’m in. Normally I would’ve gotten it on the first try, but the scents on the keys are too closely aligned and I have trouble determining if he uses the B or U key more. Fortunately I guessed right the second time—he uses the B key. 

Wiggling excitedly in the chair, I enter **Poe Dameron** in the search bar and click the first result. There’s a professional headshot of him: tall, likely six feet, short black hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, lean like a swimmer. He has a pleasing face shape and blinding white teeth. A nice suit, likely tailored. His neck’s probably smooth and sweet like syrup. 

The information on him is helpful but not especially telling. He works for a company by the name of First Order Enterprises. They offer global health services, apparently. Dameron is CFO and has been for the past five years. He’s been an asset to the company, blah blah blah— I quickly scroll through all the boring details until I arrive at some links to his social media.

Oh, _gag_. 

Dameron’s whole shtick appears to be “healthy, happy family.” His Instagram is filled with non-filtered candids of him and his tiny wife, Rose. She’s cute: big, dimpled smile, round features. There’s a young kid featured less prominently in some of the pictures taken in what looks to be a massive apartment. Dameron’s kid, maybe? Plenty of posed selfies and cooking videos and, of course, dietary suggestions. He’s in the business of healthcare, after all—why wouldn’t he promote healthy living? 

I roll my eyes. His life seems busy and yet I get the sense of an oddly repetitive pattern. Vacation, family time, promotional ads, repeat. At least, that’s the image he projects on all of his social media accounts. No Facebook, which—duh. Who even uses that nowadays? A Twitter that’s probably handled by a young, acne-marked intern with coffee for blood. No scandals, no shocking family history. To all appearances, Poe Dameron is a world-class business- and family man. How terrifyingly unexciting!

At any given time I’m running a constant tally in my head of all the people who would put up a good fight should I decide to rip their throats out. Mr. Dameron is a solid four. 

Next I look for Phasma Tahreen. No picture. She works at First Order Enterprises too. I can’t find any other information on her. Not on social media or through a complex Google search. (Four months ago I spent a straight thirty-nine hours researching Google’s advanced algorithms. Now I can find pretty much anything within seconds. Well worth the blood-starved haze that followed. I mean, the three people I accidentally killed probably wouldn’t think so, but hey—they’re dead, so their opinions don’t count.) 

Ms. Tahreen’s score: six. Purely for her ambiguity. 

Frustrated, I move on to the last name, Melfulus Snoke. Sounds like the Latin word for a lizard species or something. Gross. Bet his blood tastes goopy and dried-out like a raisin. 

Nothing.

No pictures, no accounts of any kind, not even a line of text stating his birth or place of work. 

I stare blankly at the screen for a full nine seconds. That’s impossible. Nobody can exist nowadays without leaving behind an online footprint. Everything is digital—records, transactions, _history_. The fact that the name brings up a startling but inarguable _zero_ results unnerves me, and without thinking I shoot out of my chair and slam the lid down on the laptop. 

Which cracks.

Glass tinkles on the keyboard. I slap a hand to my forehead and step back. Oh. Shit. Double and _triple_ shit. 

I inch forward and peek under the lid. The screen’s absolutely shattered, and several of the keys have gone straight through the glass. _Fuck!_ I turn in a circle, fuming. It’s not fair—I always forget this part. I forget how strong I am until I pull a stunt like this, and then too late I’m reminded to _be careful, damnit._

For a very, very brief moment—no more than a second and a half, I swear—I contemplate two distinct courses of action. If I throw the laptop out of the southernmost window on the second floor, I can probably toss it into the foliage three hundred feet away where the perimeter widens. As long as I crush any parts of the device that are trackable, the laptop likely won’t be found for more than a week. 

Tempting. 

Alternative number two: set up Miss Unconscious Maid at the desk and pretend like I have no absolutely no clue why she’s there—unconscious—or what she might’ve been doing—besides breaking a very expensive device. Oh, she’ll be fired, but she’ll also be so disoriented and scared that it’ll take no effort at all to convince her that she _did_ in fact accidentally smash her boss’s laptop with those...dainty hands. 

I sigh. 

_Dainty_ hands. Ugh. Nobody with half a brain will believe that. 

Like I said—a second and a half. That’s it.

Then I sigh again and groan at the ceiling for good measure. Out of all the many things to keep in the afterlife, why must I be saddled with a conscience? 

With a scowl fixed firmly on my face, I snap my fingers a few times and shake my hand at the hallway. That’s how you call for staff, right? Whatever. I don’t know how any of this works. While I wait for someone to get close enough to hear me, I slap a yellow post-it note on the lid of the laptop and scribble _sorry :(_ in blue ink. 

Another maid rounds the corner seconds later, her big blue eyes and red hair shining like a beacon in the gloom. She’s young and pretty and very alarmed. 

“Um, y-yes?” she stutters, glancing blankly ahead. She likely can only make out my shadow and not my features. Good. The less witnesses the better. 

“Listen,” I say calmly, striving for patience, “can you, like, order a laptop for me? I broke Ky—the master’s.” I have no idea what I’m saying. It’s weird having staff—I don’t know how to treat them. My life was more _eat canned tuna for dinner six days a week_ than _oh Mr Butler, sir, please do bring me my after-hours Cuban cigar, won’t you?_

Her brow furrows and she glances at the desk. “A laptop? What for?”

Always with the questions. I grit my teeth and gesture behind me. “There was a problem with the old one. So,” I say brightly, as if to a child, “can you _please_ order a replacement? Right now?” 

She bites her bottom lip, and although it doesn’t break skin, the blood flow becomes more pronounced. My ears ring with the rush of it, like the crash of waves. I inhale heavily, closing my eyes to steady myself. The maid considers what I’ve said for a full thirteen seconds—an _eternity_. Maybe if I ripped out her throat, it would get the next staff member moving that much quicker. 

Finally, she says, full of doubt, “I’ll have to speak with the housekeeper first. We aren’t supposed to make those decisions.”

“ _Those_?” 

“Financial,” she elaborates stiffly, and steps back when I let loose an irritated growl. 

“Fine,” I snap. Truly, this has been _so_ enlightening. Yet more evidence humans are a waste. “Useless, the lot of you!” 

I mutter under my breath as I leave the woman to her non-decision-making. Humans, as I am continuously reminded, are so fucking stupid. If they just did as they’re told from the start, there would be a lot less chaos and uncertainty in the world, I’m sure. But no, they need to _ask_ permission first. They need to _double-check_. They need to _waste time and get nothing done_. 

Useless!

Flopping on Kylo’s bed—which is ridiculously plush, I might add—I glare at the ceiling and do what comes naturally to one of my kind when it’s only mid-morning and they’ve exhausted their mental reserves. 

I wait.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Larkin the loyal chauffeur deposits Kylo at the main entrance of the house three minutes to ten. The limo crawls to a halt, and I’m standing in the shadows of the foyer when he enters, blinking once in surprise at the lack of light.

Little Miss Red-Haired Blue-Eyed Maid trips over herself flicking on a lamp, and I melt into a corner of the room and observe her as she fumbles with his coat and runs her mouth. 

According to her, all the curtains have been mysteriously yanked closed, yada yada yada, broken laptop, yeah, yeah, Ms. Sabitha missing since breakfast, blah blah blah. I roll my eyes. What a tattletale! This girl would make both a terrible storyteller _and_ a terrible spy—the unconscious maid has been lying right on my bed since sunrise, and I even left the door wide open to make her easier to find!

Pfft. “Missing.” Honestly, the _audacity._

Part of me regrets not snapping her neck. 

Kylo waves off the chatty maid, who falters and ducks her head, embarrassed. I stalk him from room to room as he orders all the lights to be turned on and all the curtains to be tied back. I do my best to stay out of the path of the sun, but at one point I wince when a stray beam hits the tip of my index finger. My skin sizzles like bacon on a skillet, and I glower and stick it in my mouth. That’ll take _days_ to heal. 

Unsurprisingly, Kylo checks his bedroom first. I’ve left it relatively untouched, though. Definitely didn’t steal anything. Yet. 

He sighs and tosses his wallet on the bed before striding down the hall, presumably to my temporary room. A smile breaks across my face. I don’t follow him, although I would give up a week’s worth of blood to see the expression on his face when he walks through that doorway and finds his maid sleeping on the job. 

But alas.

Humming, I throw myself down on Kylo’s bed and cross my ankles. Getting comfortable in his mountain of pillows—all black and gray, which— _yawn_ —I casually flip through his wallet. Gym membership card, driver’s license—his eyes are classified as brown, but I’ve detected more than a hint of amber in them that requires further study—random expired coupon, two credit cards, and five hundred dollars in cash. 

Huh. 

I seriously consider pocketing the cash. There are quite a few things I could buy with this much money. A few blood bags from the hospital—nothing like the real thing, of course, but it’s smart to have an emergency backup—or one of those studded knuckle punchers that rip straight through human flesh and lock the wounds open so they can’t heal. I’ve heard those are in short supply, but I bet I can find someone with connections. 

As I’m mulling over my options, Kylo appears in the doorway. His massive silhouette fills the open space, blocking out all the light from the hall, which might’ve been an intimidating sight indeed...if he wasn’t also grinding his teeth so loudly I can feel it in my very sensitive, _very_ irritable head. 

For no more than two seconds, I imagine leaving this all behind. Just vanishing into the night. It’s unusual, but I’m struck by the inexplicable urge to flee without creating any more chaos. 

Something about the man standing before me is unsettling. It might be that his blood calls to me like no one else’s. It might be that he accepted me into his home, knowing what I am and witnessing what I’m capable of. It might be that he’s the first human I don’t mind touching, and of course there’s the fact that to be touched by him in return _excites_ me. I don’t think I should feel that way. It’s not right. Leaving makes sense. 

And yet. 

Six more seconds tick by before I allow myself to acknowledge him. I pretend to only just then notice he’s arrived. With a cheery wave, I ask, “What do you need a Niima’s coupon for?” 

Niima’s Groceries is a small, family-owned store in the city. I used to visit all the time when I was a dumb human. The owner, a gruff, hairy man called Mr. Chew, often gave me free food and drinks. Well, not free—neither of us was comfortable with that word and all it implied. _Complimentary._

Kylo walks slowly into the room, his gait more of a saunter. Unhurried. There’s something in his right hand, but I disregard it in favor of the odd stain on his suit lapel. Not blood, but...

“Whatever, it’s expired anyway,” I mutter, tossing the coupon aside. “Did you get into a fight or something?” 

Kylo looms above me, jaw working. I stare up at him unblinkingly, an innocent smile on my face. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck pretty far back, and although I haven’t experienced discomfort since my transformation, I have a feeling this right here might be an excellent example. I don’t like that he’s not saying anything, and I really don’t like him looming over me. 

He’s dressed all in black—suit, shirt, tie—so he blends seamlessly into the darkness of the room. My heart, if it still worked, might've missed a beat then. Not for any particular reason. Not because he looked sinister. Not because the look in his eyes made me want to curl into a ball and squeeze my own eyes shut. 

Keeping my attention on his face, feeling—for once—like the prey rather than the predator (and absolutely hating it), I graciously hand him his wallet. “Tanned leather, right? Smells like Gucci, but I could be wrong. Their brand has such a distinctive smell—”

Kylo grabs the wallet and my hand too. Both are completely swallowed in his grasp, and I immediately yank, but not hard enough. Seems all that time spent around humans has convinced me to automatically default to _gentle_ —ugh. 

He pulls me towards him, and I slide across the bed, kicking my feet. It’s an awkward angle, but I manage to twist away and heave myself to the opposite side. He’s on me in a second, moving incredibly fast for a human, especially one of his size. He pins me face-down on the bed, and for the time being, I allow it. His weight is, inconceivably, comforting. Warm to my cold. Soft to my hard.

“What did I say?” His voice is like rolling thunder in my ear, and I close my eyes to listen to each and every inflection. I could get lost in the sound. 

Against my better instincts, I attempt levity. “You mean specifically? I’m going to need more details—“

He hisses and shoves a hand to the base of my skull, applying pressure so my face is shoved quite forcefully into the mattress. “Don’t play games with me, little one.”

I lick my lips, ignoring the smile that wants to curve my mouth. “You said to be on my best behavior.”

“That’s right,” he murmurs, shifting himself on top of me. His legs fall on either side of my own and cage them together. “And what did you do?”

I hum noncommittally. 

“Rey. I won’t ask you again.”

Oh, he’s using his _don’t-mess-with-me_ voice. How very mafia boss of him. I bet that works on all his underlings. Still, I’m growing bored of this game. It’s nice to be under him like this, but not if he’s going to speak to me that way. 

“Fine,” I sigh, directing my words to the mattress. “I broke your laptop—though I did write you an apology—and fed from that old maid.”

There’s a beat of silence. Is he thinking? I wish I could see his face. His heart-rate remains unchanged, and I don’t smell any intense spikes of emotion. What’s going on? 

I squirm under him, debating if I should just toss him to the floor like I did his expired coupon, but then his lips brush the lobe of my ear. I go very still. 

“Old?” he murmurs thoughtfully. “Thirty-five is not _old_ , little one.”

I make a face. He’s latched on to _that_ piece of information? Really? Jesus, talk about priorities. “To me it is. It’s ancient.” Says the immortal vampire. 

“How old do you think I am?” His voice has lost its predatory edge, and I’m grateful. It’s too taxing to act as prey. I’m much better suited to that of a predator. 

Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at guessing games. “Why don’t you just tell me?” If I guess too high, he’ll be offended. If I guess too low, he’ll know it’s intentional. Lose-lose for me.

He makes a low growling noise deep in his throat. The hairs on the back of my neck don’t rise, but I _imagine_ they do and that’s just as bad. 

“I prefer to hear your thoughts.” Kylo shifts again, and now his thighs are clamped tightly around my hips. It’s very confining and oddly intimate. His cock is pushing at the juncture of my thighs, directly between my legs, and I concentrate very deliberately on not reacting to it. My body wants to—it wants me to arch against him, wiggle my ass a little, see if I can get a rise out of him. My mind warns me it’s a gamble—one I’m slighted to lose. He’s not interested, not like _that_. 

“Thirty-four,” I blurt, deciding this is a decent guess, all things considered. Based on appearance, current career standing, and the assets and possessions I’ve been witness to so far, he’s approaching middle age but still has several years to go. 

“Hm. Close enough.” He’s impressed but unwilling to admit it. 

My curiosity gets the best of me. “Why does it matter?”

“I’d like us to be friends,” he says instead—a deflection. Whatever. At least he’s no longer in interrogator mode. “Friends don’t insult each other, Rey.”

“I wasn’t calling you old,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. Humans are so self-absorbed. 

Kylo suddenly kisses my temple and rises fluidly to his feet, peeling off his suit jacket. “We have an arrangement, do we not?”

“What, like, I don’t kill your staff and you let me drink your blood?” As far as I know, that’s the extent of it. Is there something I’m missing? 

He chuckles and disappears into a walk-in closet. I hear him shuffling around. Belatedly, I scramble into a sitting position, hastily shoving my hair from my face. Rude man. He’s gotten me all mussed up. 

“That’s one facet, I suppose.” Kylo reappears wearing sleep pants and a short-sleeved shirt. His arms are lightly muscled, skin taut across veins that shine like ropes of crimson to my eyes. My mouth waters a little at the sight of so much bare skin, but I refrain from making any weird comments. For now.

Carefully, moving slow so I can anticipate his movements, I suppose, he pulls off my shoes and sets them to the side of the bed. My clothes stay on, although he does hesitate as if considering. But then he draws back the covers and, sliding his arms beneath me to shift me around, tucks me in. 

I’m rendered mute—both surprised and incredibly fascinated by his actions. His mind works in a way I can’t predict. Every time I think I know his next move, he surprises me.

Kylo slips beneath the covers too and draws them over us both. He turns me on my side and drapes a heavy arm over my waist—not so much restricting as comforting. I get the sense that he perceives me as an unruly child, which suggests he doesn’t have any of his own. Maybe, without his wife around to coddle him, he’s lonely. 

Not my problem, and yet I allow him to mold our bodies together. I’m so much smaller than him that I can place my feet on the tops of his own. We fit together nicely—two pieces of a strange puzzle. 

When he sighs, his hot breath grazes the back of my neck. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow.”

“Discuss…?” I’ve lost my train of thought. He’s so big and warm, and it’s only now as I feel him pressed against me, his body wrapped around me from behind, that I realize how much I’ve missed contact. Not just human contact— _any_ contact. Until last night at the club, I haven’t been touched in months. Not unless someone—a man, usually—was trying to feel me up or steal something that didn’t belong to him. 

That never ends well. 

“Our arrangement,” he murmurs, nuzzling the back of my head. I automatically lean into his touch. 

“Oh.” 

“Stay put, now,” he orders, speech slurring at the end. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I snort, although the tips of my fingers seem to be tingling, strangely enough. “Where would I go?”

“Away,” he mumbles, and then his arm tightens around my waist. His other one wraps under and around my chest, binding me to him. “You stay here.”

I don’t say okay. I don’t make promises. I don’t inform him that if I really want to leave, there’s not a single thing he or anyone in this house can do to stop me. 

I don’t tell him that this is where I want to be for now anyway, so why would I give it up? 

I don’t say any of that. But I do stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **yah rey's young in this one, but i've decided to make her hella ✨smart✨ because all too often in fic she's a dumb pushover lol**


	4. Honey, This Mirror Ain't Big Enough For The Two Of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **beep boop have some more**

Poe Dameron.  
Phasma Tahreen.  
Melfulus Snoke.

The three names run on a loop inside my head for the first two hours. It’s _maddening._

Kylo is a quiet sleeper—no sleeptalking, no thrashing or flailing, no snoring or exaggerated sighing. Every now and then his arm tightens around my waist, and at one point he presses his cheek to the top of my head, but otherwise his position remains the same. It’s no trouble for me to remain still, and all the nonactivity allows me to think— _really_ think. 

The names mean something. Obviously, Kylo feels either threatened or at the very least _unkind_ towards these people. Nobody goes into such insane detail—nobody keeps a file full of pages and pages of said detail—if they’re genuinely uninterested in some sort of results. 

The question is...why the heck do I care? 

Well, that may not be as tricky a question as I'm making it out to be. I tend to obsess over things that don't have a clear answer. In this case, there are many moving parts, and the information at hand doesn't point to an easy solution. As a human, everything seemed insurmoutable. As a vampire, I have to seek out challenges. Let me tell you, they are few and far between. What may appear impossible to a human is a damn cakewalk to a vampire. 

Based on the little I’ve managed to gather so far, it’s clear Kylo has amassed both influence and power, to say nothing of money. He’ll have connections, and I don’t think it’s too great of a leap to assume he knows more about Phasma and the elusive Snoke than I do. If he’s in trouble, if these three are after him for a crime committed or an offense rendered, Kylo no doubt has the means to protect himself or fight back.

So why do I _care_? 

Frustrated, I shift on my back and glare up at the ceiling. It shouldn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t be dedicating any thoughts at all to this mystery. For all I know, Dameron and Phasma and Snoke are good people. Maybe Kylo’s the one who’s done wrong. Maybe Kylo’s the bad guy. 

As if he can sense me thinking about him, Kylo tugs me against his side so there’s not an inch between us. His hand clutches my hip and grips so hard, if I was human, I imagine it would hurt quite a bit. His hot breath whispers along my neck, stirring the baby hairs around my ears. I turn my head on the pillow to look at him. A small, secret voice inside me warns that’s not a smart idea, but I disregard it. 

He’s so much softer like this. 

Kylo’s eyes flutter in sleep, long lashes brushing his cheeks. In repose, his face is less hard—still angular, but the tension and awareness is missing. When he’s awake, Kylo exudes a vigilance that rivals my own. He’s constantly aware of what’s going on around him. For me it’s second nature; for him I imagine it’s exhausting but, for a man who must wield considerable power, necessary. 

His lips are petal-soft and unusually plump for a man. I get an urge to run my fingers across the bottom seam, but this time the smart voice convinces me otherwise. We’re already touching too intimately. For someone who’s married, possibly with children, he sure seems to have no qualms about cuddling up to another woman. 

_Girl,_ I remind myself then. _You will never be a woman._

Unexpectedly, this thought creates what amounts to a hairline fracture in my chest. Nothing more than a sliver, really, yet I feel it break me open all the same. Pinned to a strange bed by a strange man who intrigues me when I know he shouldn’t, with nothing to distract me but the blank ceiling overhead, the floodgates open. 

And I do something I normally avoid: I self-evaluate. 

Barf. 

Vampires, contrary to popular belief, are not soulless. We do not have a beating heart, true, and we can’t die by natural means. We are far more dangerous to humanity than any biological infection, but we do still have feelings. We feel joy and fear and sadness and rage. We feel love. We feel attraction. 

And we _want_. 

Blood most of all, but other things too. We want friends. Certain humans make excellent vampires solely because they prefer isolation, but generally, vampires still seek companionship, whether it comes in a platonic or romantic form. We want pleasure. We want happiness. We want, and sometimes, we need. 

My emotions have not been dampened in death. They are not distant or numbed, dimmed or stunted. Rather the opposite. Vampire emotions are _much_ more intense than human ones. This goes against most myths about our kind, but it’s true. 

Our every sense is magnified by a million—a _billion_ —so why wouldn’t our emotions be as well? If I can hear the flap of a hummingbird’s wings from two miles out, why can’t I hold joy in my heart at the sight of winter’s first snowfall? If I can ram a car into a brick wall and obliterate them both, why can’t I also experience the unbearable guilt that arises when I sink my teeth into an innocent teenager? 

Vampires feel, and we do so very deeply. Because of our heightened sensibilities and overall physical superiority to that of humans, our emotions are intense and often instant. We can analyze everything about a person in the space of a heartbeat, which then allows us to latch on to them—sometimes permanently but always fiercely. Often _violently_ , as is our nature. 

BMT—that is, Before My Transformation—I was quite an unremarkable human. Young and silly and relatively unambitious, I had little to no expectations for the future. I lived with an ugly human man who drank two six-packs a day and kept three overflowing ashtrays in each room of the apartment. We were not related—thank fuck—and we couldn’t stand one another. But he received money for my care, and I received adequate food and a place to sleep. An even exchange. 

(Well, _adequate_ may be stretching it.)

As a human, I did not have friends. I was too shy and frightened of people. My focus was often on my studies—homework, tests, quizzes, essays, presentations. I was a bit of a protégé—enrolled in all advanced classes, preparing for college entrance exams even as a freshman. At fifteen I took my school courses very seriously—it was, after all, the only path out of that life, and I clung to it with both hands regardless of the obstacles. Bloody those hands, tear them to shreds, and at the end of the day I would still cling. 

Isn't it amusing, then, that in the end of it was all for nothing? 

I shift again, restless now. It’s been four hours since Kylo lay down to sleep. The staff has managed to stay quiet, for the most part, despite it being mid-afternoon. 

I wonder if this is normal for him, if he often arrives back home at odd hours. I wonder if he ever seeks company, if only to snuggle like a giant toddler—so incongruous with his big, bad wolf persona. I wonder, with increasing annoyance, if he ever tucks Miss Redheaded Maid under the covers and presses his lips to her silken throat before he drifts off to sleep, their bodies perfectly fitted. 

Ah. Okay, then. I might have to kill her after all. 

Jealousy brings a nasty taste to my mouth. Like spoiled milk, it’s sour and thick and wholly unwelcome. I hate this feeling most of all. More than pain or fury or sadness, I despise jealousy. To desire what one cannot possess is foolish, and foolishness is the humans’ game.

And yet. 

Inevitably—it some ways, it always comes back to violence—I begin to contemplate methods of torture. Quick ones, of course—I’m not a complete monster. Miss Maid is proving far more of an annoyance than I first anticipated. I could snap all the bones in the maid’s fingers, perhaps, or at least pop them out of place. Dislocate a shoulder or knee. Or maybe I should escalate. I try to avoid anything involving sensory overload, since that actually impairs vampires more than it does humans. Impalement? Tooth extraction? Waterboarding involves too many moving parts, and most vampires grow bored of any sport that doesn’t involve some measure of bloodspill. 

Vampires _demand_ instant gratification. As one, I can verify the legitimacy of that. Not saying I’ve participated in any, uh, suspicious activities, of course, but I’ve...seen some things. Ten months as a vampire is more than enough to get my feet wet. More than enough to bear witness to the horrors inflicted on my kind. 

_Wonder what’ll hurt_ you _the most. Wonder what’ll make_ you _squeal. Give torture a whirl, Rey. Come on, don’t be shy!_

The voice is a sibilant whisper, all teeth and wild pitch. It skirts the edge of true insanity. It’s a voice, a Bad Voice, that reminds me I am not all-powerful. Immortal, definitely, but not invincible. It likes to pipe up every now and then to ruin my day. 

The voice refers to all vampirekind’s greatest fear: anti-vamp weapons. 

In recent years, these devices have flooded the streets. At first the only weapons available to commoners were steel spikes and the occasional knife. Garlic-scented, naturally, although that method is more incapacitating than lethal. 

But something changed a few years back. I’m still not sure what it was, still not sure what caused such a monumental shift. Suddenly there were wooden bullets and flamethrowers ranging from palm-sized to the height and breadth of a machine gun flooding the streets. Steel in everything: guns, knives, chains, even everyday fixtures like furniture and clothes. Fabric infused with garlic, microscopic grains of steel and wood embedded in even the most innocuous objects, like a cell phone case or Nike shoelaces. Lightweight crossbows are relatively new, and they’re already legal in twenty-nine states. 

And we can’t forget my favorite. The dog whistle. 

It’s not meant for dogs, obviously, but it is in fact a whistle. The design is deceptively simple—silver and thumb-sized, it can be triggered by a sudden rush of air or a small button on the side. 

The sound that’s emitted from this whistle is too high for normal human ears. For vampires, however, it’ll send us writhing to the ground. If a vamp has recently fed, all the blood they consumed will reappear via nose, ear, or eye ducts. Sometimes through the mouth, too.

Again—the dog whistle is not meant to kill, only incapacitate. 

_Only._

Not much scares me now. Invulnerability and eternal life will do that to a person. But these anti-vamp weapons are something else. 

People who are vehemently—nay, _unapologetically_ —anti-vampire wield these devices like they’re holding the staff of God. Corpse-cleavers, some have named the silver spikes. They call the dog whistle an obliterate, for obvious reasons. 

Humans are afraid of us, but it’s more than that—they are afraid of their _fear_. No one wants to face the unknown, especially not at two in the morning at a McDonalds drive-thru. (Yes, it’s true—I have been known to stalk the parking lots of fast food restaurants sometime between the hours of midnight and four a.m. We will not speak of this again.) 

Kylo’s eyes move beneath his closed lids, and when a soft sigh escapes, I find myself brushing his lips with the very tip of my finger. Just a touch. So light he can’t possibly feel it. Sometimes a human's warmth surprises me. I tend to forget how very... _pliant_ they are, until I have to feed. Then I'm reminded that _oh yes they are squishy like a sponge._

Even now, face slack and limbs sprawled under the covers, Kylo is so very beautiful, so very masculine, that to see him in repose like this, unaware of my attention, makes me feel more things I probably shouldn’t. 

I had crushes in high school, but they were always unrequited since I was too shy to ever open my mouth. This is something else. This feels like more than a crush. 

I've been in this man's presence for less than two days, and yet I already want to know everything about him. I want to burrow under his skin and live there. I want to wrap myself around him—or, even better, force _him_ to wrap himself around _me_ —and cling like a burr to his chest until he tries to pry me off, at which time I will have to reluctantly release him.

He lives a comfortable life. He could take care of me. In a very real sense, I could stay here forever. 

Something in my mind finally clicks. I go still.

The connection forms, random but instantaneous. My mind is always working in the background of my thoughts, analyzing and calculating and deciphering, which sounds exhausting, but only if you need sleep, which I do not. So even as my focus fixes firmly on Kylo, my mind is still examining something curious that happened hours ago, turning it over, inspecting it from all sides, intent on reaching an answer. 

Now I remember. The folder in Kylo’s study. It smelled familiar—very subtly, even to my senses—but faintly recognizable, even so. I’d shoved the sensation to the back of my mind, where I figured it would never again be relevant, but now I remember. Now I know.

The folder smells like an anti-vamp weapon. Like steel and wood grain and sawdust and rust. Not blood rust but _metal_ rust. (The two are very distinctive.) 

I slowly turn my head and stare at Kylo. 

Does this mean there are anti-vamp weapons somewhere in this massive house? Does this mean he’s _used_ anti-vamp weapons? Does this mean he's going to stab me in the back with one as soon as my attention flags? 

If I had a pulse, it would certainly be pounding my temples like an anvil. If I had a heart, it would be whirring like an overextended motor. 

No. No, no, no. This is Not Good. This is very much Not A Good Thing. 

_Go,_ the Good Voice yells. _Get out!_

_Oh, but the blood._ Bad Voice again. Temptation personified. _Are you willing to leave the blood behind, Rey?_

I am very still. Too still. Kylo begins to stir. But I can’t force myself to move. The two voices rage inside me. Fight or flight.

 _Find blood elsewhere! This man has too many secrets!_ shrieks Good Voice. _He is unquantifiable. He is a radioactive variable!_

Bad Voice sticks to the best argument. _Think of its sweetness, Rey. Think of its divine succulence. Imagine the things you may do with his blood running through your veins! Imagine the potential! Imagine the ecstasy!_

Kylo murmurs unintelligibly and spreads his fingers over my stomach. The weight of it is oddly comforting. I still don’t move. 

_The outcome,_ Good Voice babbles. _Consider the outcome! This will end badly._

Bad Voice is relentless. _You are already living inside his house. You’ve hardly had to lift a finger. Keep him under your spell and you shall gorge every night for the rest of his miserable life._

My resolve hardens at that. If Kylo’s truly using anti-vamp weapons, I’ll find them. I’ll find them and destroy them. When I do, I will make him watch. And then I’ll drink. 

Bad Voice purrs. It knows it’s all but won. _Who’s going to stop you?_ He _certainly can’t._

Good Voice sighs. _This will end badly. He is dangerous._

Yes, but so am I.

Kylo’s eyes open, and when they do, I'm inches away. He sucks in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t move. I’m on my side now, head on the pillows. I tuck my hands into small fists and press them to his chest. An innocent gesture. _Look at me,_ those fists say. _I am soft and delicate and unassuming._

_You want to take care of me._

Eyes heavy-lidded, Kylo closes the gap between us. I remain a statue as his lips coast along my jaw and trail gently down my neck. I instinctively tense—he’s touching my throat, _he’s touching my throat_ —but I forcefully remind myself he’s not a hunter. I relax when his arms bring me into his chest. He is warm and so very big. Like a giant bear, sans the hair. 

He kisses the hollow of my throat, and a quicksilver flash of pleasure lights up my senses. My breath catches, and he must hear it because his lips pull into a satisfied smile against my skin. 

“You’re still here.” His voice is rough again. An illness? I suppress a frown. He doesn’t feel overheated, and his pulse is normal. Hm. I don’t want him to get sick. His blood will taste weird. 

“Yes,” I say softly, staring at his throat. “I promised I would be.” Well, sort of.

He hums noncommittally. “You drank from my maid.” 

Oh, back to that, are we? I nod and don’t meet his eyes. A prominent vein throbs in his throat, and I unconsciously lean in. 

“You broke my laptop.”

My mouth floods with venom. There’s no way he can stop me. We’re too close. My fangs can be in his neck before he takes his next breath. I’m dizzy with it—the temptation. 

Bad voice returns. _What’s holding you back?_

“How shall I punish you?” he continues mildly, his hand gliding to the back of my neck. I like the pressure of his fingers there. _Squeeze,_ I want to tell him. _Squeeze as hard as you can._

“Blood,” I growl, my voice raspy with need. He’s lucky I’m even asking. 

He clucks his tongue and mouths at my jugular. I moan so loud it vibrates in the air, a tangible current. “Now, now, that’s not much of a punishment, is it?”

Slowly, Kylo shifts on top of me, his body forcing mine deeper into the mattress. I lick his chin and whine, eyes locked on his pulse. _Give it to me. Give it to me before I take it from you._ Still, for some reason, I hesitate. 

I know. My self-control astonishes even _me_ sometimes. 

“Little one,” he scolds, voice low and strangely hypnotizing. His hand shifts to the waistband of his pants. “You’ve been a naughty girl.”

The voice and his touch are too overwhelming. My fangs shoot down, and I bare my teeth threateningly. He smiles, and the sight is so incongruous with the response I intended to receive that I freeze. 

Just for a second. But it’s enough. Kylo straddles my waist, pinning me to the bed like a butterfly to corkboard. I let loose another pained whimper as his throat moves out of reach. 

And then he presses a spike to my ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **this is very much a bit of experimental writing for me, so expect it to be kind of weird (by "kind of" I mean incredibly) 😬**


	5. Don’t Bleed On My Shirt And Tell Me It’s Raining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **but is it necrophilia if she’s _un_ dead?!?! asking for a friend**
> 
> **TW: brief mentions of vomiting, torture**

** TEN MONTHS AGO **

For a city on the verge of civil war, its afternoons are still wonderfully and offensively normal. 

Jansport backpack heavy on my shoulders, I stand at the corner of a busy intersection teeming with out-of-season tourists. The traffic light flashes a countdown in bright red numbers, twenty to nineteen to eighteen and so on (yes, we know how numbers work here). Yawning, I cross my arms and recite the periodic table while I wait.

_Hydrogen and helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen and oxygen…_

It’s called a grounding technique, apparently. Test anxiety has me up at all hours, twitching and pacing and mumbling chemistry equations under my breath. I’m set to take the PSAT in a week. Thanks to my unknown, deadbeat parents, I'm considered _exceptional_.

Normally, my school wouldn’t even entertain the idea of a fifteen year old registering for an exam meant for the junior class, but my scores are damn near perfect, and my Chemistry teacher insisted. In fact, I’ve had little trouble maintaining a 4.0 GPA since seventh grade, which basically means, yeah—I’m fucking smart. My classes are too easy, always have been, and the PSAT will decide if I should finally be moved up a grade or two. 

If it was up to me, I’d skip straight to year one of university. Bypass all the unnecessary busywork and get to the real challenges. 

But, like so many things, it is _not_ up to me. 

The **WALK** sign flashes as soon as the countdown reaches one, and a massive horde of straw-hatted, Caribbean-loving, sun-drunk tourists surge through the streets like lions on the prowl. Hungry for overpriced “local” food and greedy for souvenirs. 

Whatever. It’s not my money. If I had any, I surely wouldn’t spend it on tacky beach snowglobes. I grip the canvas straps of my backpack and pick my way among loitering tour groups and the occasional sleepy-eyed local. 

_Fluorine, and neon,_  
_Sodium, magnesium,_  
_Aluminum and silicon..._

Humming, I pass a vegan smoothie place and wave at the old woman behind the counter. Their stuff is pretty gross, and also kind of redundant—aren’t smoothies made of fruit and veggies, and therefore _already_ vegan?—but I never pass up an opportunity to nab a pineapple ice pop. Ms. Mara’s talkative, and she leans forward across the counter as if to call out to me, but I’m too distracted today for conversation. 

My mind flickers from numbers to definitions to the periodic table again, and I reassure myself that I _will_ skip a grade. At least one. The coursework for sophomores (which I’ve already examined in detail because duh) is still far too simple. The honors classes for the juniors might provide a challenge for me. More than anything, I want to bump up to senior level, but it’s all up to my counselor and the administration. They’re not yet convinced I’ll be able to handle the workload, which is a shame. I’m more than willing to take any number of tests to show them just how capable I am. They have a fucking genius in the palm of their hands, but they refuse to use their damn eyes. The plan is to graduate with a scholarship before my sixteenth birthday so I can leave Unkar’s shack and get the hell outta here. 

All in good time.

Now, I make a beeline for the Takodana Butterfly Sanctuary. It’s on the easternmost part of the peninsula, and the hours of operation tend to change from season to season, so I'm always in a rush to get there. I’ve done my best to keep track of these changes, which are very much at the whim of the eccentric proprietor, Missus Holdo. It’s a great place to study and do homework. 

I arrive at the entrance just in time—the skies let loose with a torrent of freezing cold rain. It’s still October, so the temperatures aren’t too bad, but I’m only wearing shorts and a t-shirt because the Sanctuary is one-hundred percent humidity and I did _not_ want to lounge around in puddles of sweat. Dressing appropriately on what's basically an island in the off-season is as difficult as trying to catch a cat one-handed. 

Shivering, I race through the gift shop, calling a quick hello to Missus Holdo—who’s nowhere in sight, which means she must be lurking in some hidden corner—and into the butterfly room. A big, greedy inhale floods my nose and lungs with the scent of moss and fresh flowers. The sliding glass doors click shut behind me, and I smile broadly at the sanctuary. 

It’s a huge glass dome, like a greenhouse—all square panes and carefully arranged flora, thermally insulated and UV-resistant. A quiet stream winds through the reserve, and the faint tinkling of wind chimes comes from the opposite corner where several benches are lined up for tours. The environment is peaceful—rarely do I come across more than two or three visitors during my stays. Missus Holdo lent me a key when she noticed how often I visit—which is to say, almost every day. Because I'm fifteen and have no life. 

I plop down in a quiet, secluded area mostly hidden by foliage and settle my backpack between my legs. A Monarch butterfly draws close, hovering near my face, but after a moment it moves on. Less than a minute later, two Eastern Tiger Swallowtails swoop past in a circle as if they’re engaged in a dance. But it's certainly not mating season, so perhaps they're just jitterbugging. 

I tuck my legs under me and place a notebook on my knees. With a Calculus textbook open on the bench beside me and the calm, steady trickle of the stream providing a gentle soundtrack, I descend into a bit of a trance. Equations flow from the tip of my pencil, filling page after page. I twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger, humming whenever a problem stalls me for more than a few seconds. 

When a man sits at the opposite end of the bench, I don't notice. Not right away. 

My mind is wrapped up in the complexities of a particularly convoluted equation as well as an insistent and rising desire to check and double check and _triple_ check my school email. The guidance counselor should be sending me dates for the PSAT soon. I need to know precisely how much time I have to prepare. It’s dramatic, but _everything_ hinges on this exam. My whole future. 

“Wonderful weather we’re having.” 

I startle, my pencil sliding across the notebook paper. A dark streak of lead mars the parentheses of an equation. A frown threatens, but I keep it at bay. The man who spoke is old and hairless, thin to the point of emaciation and tall like a beanpole. He has a deep cut through his upper lip, which makes it seem like he’s wearing a permanent sneer. 

“Oh, the weather in here never changes,” I say absently, erasing the slash of pencil lead from my clean page. Only three more equations to go, and then it’s time for Trig. 

The man makes a gruff, choking noise, and I realize a second later that it’s a laugh. For some reason this makes me shiver, and I draw my legs tighter. Okay, creep.

“Forgive me,” he says with what’s probably meant to be a smile. It’s more of a leer. “A poor observation.” 

I shrug— _whatever you say_ —and return to my homework. Almost done with Calculus. Then Trigonometry—my favorite. Should be a breeze. 

“Do you come here often?”

Annoyed by the interruption, I mutter, “Yes, all the time.”

 _Go away. Can’t you see I’m busy?_ My instinct is to leave—stranger danger, right?—but I’m kind of irritated. I was here first. This is _my_ happy place. 

The man hums thoughtfully and doesn’t speak again. I do my best to ignore him, and soon my pretending evolves into honest disconnect. I fall into the math, lost in the numbers and the quest from question to answer. It all works so seamlessly in my head; with just a little effort, everything clicks into place, and answer after answer scrawls across the pages, until Trig joins Calculus in my makeshift DONE pile. 

Advanced Psychology is next—we’re learning about eating disorders this week—and I fly through that chapter in about twenty minutes. Two more subjects and my homework is finished. It’s taken less than two hours in total. My peers have told me they spend upwards of _five_ hours working on papers and note-taking and prep work.

Dumbasses. This is why I need to move on, move _up_. I'm surrounded by literal gnats. 

I inhale slowly and look up. The creepy man’s long gone. I’m not sure when he left since he didn’t say goodbye—super rude, but whatever—but frankly, I’m not bothered. He obviously wasn’t a regular or else he’d have seen me hanging around and known not to disturb me. His obvious try-something-new-on-his-lunch-break idea will not, I suspect, be repeated. Takodana is my refuge—a home away from home. I won’t let anyone ruin that.

Backpack secure, I exit the sanctuary and toss a wave towards the counter. Missus Holdo may be there, she may not—it’s hard to tell with her—but regardless, I’ve gotten into the habit of bidding farewell because she’ll know if I don’t. It’s a mystery, but I’ve determined, through close observation over many months, that when it comes to the goings-on within Takodana, she’s omniscient. If I don't say goodbye, she'll passive-aggressively bring it up at some later point. 

Either that, or she checks her security cameras. Again, hard to tell with her. 

Out on the streets, the rain has subsided, but the clouds are still a heavy grey, speckled with areas of jet black. Lightning cracks across the sky, scattering tourists. The locals linger on the streets and sidewalks—they know the storm will soon pass. Like Florida, we get hit at least once a day, usually in late afternoon. I’ve come to appreciate the beauty rather than fear the noise. 

As I meander the streets, my eyes flicker over the artillery depots. There isn’t much in the window displays—a carefully neutral arrangement of dark clothes, cell phone holsters, night vision goggles—but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the signs. _Artillery depots_ is just another name for anti-vamp stores. Inside, I know, rows upon rows of bullets laced with steel and iron line the walls. Crossbows and obliterates and stakes. Chains and shackles and collars. 

I quicken my pace. Even though it’s still technically taboo to sell those weapons here, people find ways around the laws. There’s been an unprecedented surge in the vampire population the last five years, and humans are responding in kind. Arming themselves, barricading their homes, setting an early curfew at night. 

And hunting. Can’t forget hunting. 

Unlike Unkar and most of the city's brainless male population, I don’t want anything to do with the civil war brewing. Vampires don’t really bother me. They come out at night and feed, just as we do in the day. It just so happens their food source is still alive. It just so happens their food source is _us_ , which I find funny. We’re well aware of our disadvantages—physically, morally, emotionally—and yet we’re too stupid to realize that no matter how viciously we thrash, our bonds will only ever grow tighter. 

If I was a vampire, I would only drink from those who deserved it. Like kidnappers and murderers and rapists. People like Unkar who take and take and _demand_ when they should fall to their knees and beg. Just the thought of him ignites something cold and ugly in my chest. My foster father is involved in some sketchy shit and has been for years, so I try to stay out of the shack we call home until it becomes impossible to stay away. I'm often driven back by a combination of hunger and exhaustion.

The streets are damp, the air chilly with creeping October temperatures. I cross my arms and glance both ways before shuffling across the empty street. Hopefully I can find a can of beans or something in the pantry at home. Some plain rice cakes, maybe. There’s an old jar of peanut butter that might go well with it. Sweet and savory. My mouth waters, and I quicken my pace. 

It’s only as I’m nearing a dimy-lit corner two blocks from home that I realize I’m being followed. The footsteps are timed with my own, which is clever, but there’s a slight echo that’s amplified in the still quiet. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and as soon as I disappear around the corner, I break into a run.

The Jansport is heavy on my back—now more than ever I curse the offensive size of science and math textbooks—but adrenaline fuels me, and I pump my arms like an Olympic sprinter, intent on reaching the house before they catch me. I don’t have any money—only a fool carries cash nowadays—but sometimes that’s not what a man wants. 

Sometimes, that’s not what a man wants at all. 

_Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught._ The words beat to the rhythm of my footsteps on pavement. Fast, and faster, and fastest, until the wind’s whistling in my ears, until I can’t even hear the frantic pounding of my heart. 

Despite my efforts, I hear the stranger getting closer, halving the distance in seconds. Panic ignites in my chest. Fuck. I just need to get home. Unkar won’t protect me, but I know where he keeps all the weapons. The barrel of a gun is usually enough to deter a pursuer. 

But a hand clamps down on the strap of my bag, and I’m yanked backwards. I kick and scream, but it’s no use—they’re too strong. Hands lift me bodily from the ground, and my feet dangle as I’m hauled against a thick wall of a body. Cloth is stuffed into my mouth, and I choke and buck, but pressure on my throat forces me limp as a doll. 

The silvery light cast by the full moon disappears as I’m dragged down a black hole of an alley, and the last thing I see before darkness swamps me is the glittering trail of a shooting star.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**  
PRESENT DAY   
**

_Corpse cleaver._

The name zings through my mind like a particularly vicious bolt of lightning. Kylo is holding a fucking _corpse cleaver_ to my ribs. 

That motherfucker. 

The worst part is, of all the scenarios I’ve been preparing myself for, I never imagined _this_ one. I never imagined he would kill me after expending so much of his effort to get me here. 

Fool me once.

My instinctive reaction is to tense up, curl inward to remove the tip of the cleaver from where it touches my abdomen. As a human, I would succumb to the fear and panic. Such a response is natural. Humans are ruled by emotion.

As a vampire, I have more options.

“What’s this, then?” I ask calmly, raising an eyebrow. Vampire rule number one: remain unaffected in the face of danger. Even if said danger is ludicrous and unfair and, frankly, annoying. 

He merely looks at me, expression placid, and I ignore the flare of hurt in my chest. 

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I squirm a little—more playful than anything, you know, just checking out the scene—and he immediately presses the sharpened tip into my skin. A roiling ball of agony shoots from the contact point, spreading over me in a wave, and I gasp and go still. 

Okay, _fine_. Jackass. 

“You’ll find it’s better not to move,” he says dryly, and if I wasn’t currently in the throes of a monstrous, all-consuming pain, I might’ve laughed. Yeah, thanks, got it. 

“Are you...going to kill me, then?” My voice doesn’t shake, and I act as though this is what I expected. But all the while, my mind sorts through possible escape routes, discarding paths that are too risky, shelving ones with promise. The big house has gone quiet, conveniently—no servants to witness whatever the hell this is. Not that they would save me anyway; they’ve proven their loyalty.

 _I’m too young to die._

Like a persistent rash, Bad Voice reappears. _But dear, you already have._

Right. 

Kylo hums consideringly, watching my face. For what, I don’t know. Vampires wear phenomenal poker faces. He shifts, his groin pressing at the apex of my thighs, and I clench my teeth against the sensation. What is he _doing_? What does he _want_? 

Agitation flares. My voice is caustic now. “May I ask why you’re pressing a stake to my ribs?” 

“You may,” he replies, still infuriatingly calm. Unconcerned. Like maybe we’re at a family barbeque and someone misplaced the spatula. Or perhaps we’ve just sat down at the theater without a bucket of popcorn. Inconvenient, yes, but nothing to worry about. 

Is this another game? I slowly lift a hand, testing, and another spike of agony dims my vision. Fine. He’ll find out soon enough this isn’t one I want to play. 

“Have I offended you in some way?” I lick my lips, flashing fangs, and his gaze lowers, but he doesn’t move the cleaver. 

“You’re extremely troublesome, aren't you,” he says in a low voice, head tilted. A curl of dark hair falls across his forehead, and it’s all I can do to not reach up and tuck it away. Like a lovesick preteen or some shit. Ugh. “Hurting the maid, breaking my things, stealing my wallet—" 

“I didn’t _steal_ ,” I protest indignantly. Those other things—yes, fine, guilty as charged, but _that_ —“You left it on the bed, remember?” Pouting, I pat the mattress and widen my eyes. “I can’t help my curiosity, sir.” 

He pushes his lower lip out, mirroring my expression. “No? Are you sure, little one?” 

There’s a trap here somewhere, but I don’t sense exactly where. I nod and make myself small. “Whatever I’ve done—” 

Kylo gently lays a finger on my lips, and I fall silent. He tastes like metal and male sweat. Bad Voice, the tease, wants me to open up and suck it into my mouth, nip at the calloused skin, the short, broad nails. Watch his eyes darken as my cheeks hollow. 

Bad Voice is a horny bitch. 

“It’s not what you’ve done,” he says quietly, tilting the stake to a different angle. I clench my teeth hard—harder—anticipating more pain. I’m so fucked. “It’s what you’re going to do."

This makes me pause. Oh, so he knows? Killing the redheaded maid shouldn’t be _that_ big a deal. Is he really so attached to her? My dead heart expands, or I imagine it does, anyway, filling with rage and bloodlust and...fear. Surely he doesn’t mean to kill me in order to protect _her_. How could he have guessed my intentions? 

Good Voice applauds my common sense. (There you are, you sly devil.)

Kylo smooths the hem of my shirt up my stomach, bunching it beneath my rosebud breasts. His breath catches, oddly enough, as if he’s seen something startling. _They're just boobs,_ I want to tell him. But then he proceeds as normal—blank-faced, firm, unshaken. 

He traces the fine tip of the steel-pointed cleaver over my belly, and I crane my neck back, whining, desperate to lunge for a safe place. Tropical fronds and butterfly wings tear through my thoughts as bright flashes, but I force the strange images away and tell myself a truth hard earned: nowhere is safe. 

“I don’t like this game,” I admit finally, lips tight. There’s no shame in acknowledging when you’ve been outmaneuvered. And this man has definitely, maddeningly, gained the upper hand.

“Is that what this is?” he asks finally. “A game?”

 _I don’t know,_ I want to scream. _Is it?_ If I understood his intentions, I might be able to play by the rules, but the game is a mystery, and the rules are suspect. What’s the end goal? If he doesn’t want to kill me, then what? 

The stake digs deeper. “Kylo—”

“Sir.” His free hand wraps around my throat, his thumb pressing down on my chin. “You will call me _sir_ from now on, little one.”

“Okay,” I agree, and then despairingly, “Okay, sir.”

He stares at me with eyes dark like a cave, like a windless Alaskan night, like miles and miles of lightless space. There’s no expression, no tell I can use to my advantage. He is impenetrable. 

And yet. 

My rage and fear gradually fade, replaced by something sly and warped and vicious. Bad Voice titters. _There's_ one _thing we know, isn’t there?_

“I’ll leave,” I hiss, lips peeling back from my teeth to expose my elongated fangs. A threat, clear as ice. “I’ll leave and you will _never_ see me again.”

His blood is intoxicating, yes, but it’s not worth this humiliation, this degradation, this _hurt_. 

He wants me here. I'm not sure why or for how long, but he's made it clear that my presence is desired. If he hurts me, I'm out.

“I will _leave_ —“ I snarl, fangs bared now, but Mr. Ren (I will not call him _sir_ in my head, I won't) digs his fingers into my neck, burying them in the soft skin of my trachea. It doesn’t hurt—if anything, the feeling is similar to that of a band of feathers cinching around my throat: strange, certainly, and vaguely unpleasant, but still relatively comfortable. Even so, I startle and stop speaking. 

I’m getting mixed signals here. Does he _wish_ to hurt me? 

_Hm, let’s see. Cleaver, ribs. Hand, throat. Fingers, trachea._ Bad Voice is back. _Connect the dots, lovely!_

Stupid question, then. There _is_ an anti-vamp weapon aimed at my belly, after all. That doesn’t exactly scream _let’s be friends!_

So why hasn’t he stabbed me? 

“You won’t leave,” he says mildly, touching a fang with the tip of his finger. His arrogance is truly astounding. 

I laugh at his bravado because, really, it’s too much. “The stake is a nice touch, fine, but do you really think you'll have time to stab me before I rip out your throat?” Then, coyly, “ _Sir_.”

“Well.” Mr. Ren leans forward, shifting his weight but not the stake, and braces himself on my throat. The pain should be exquisite, but it’s little more than a nuisance. Logically, I recognize that he’s very heavy. But to _know_ is one thing, to feel, quite another. “Would you like to find out?”

His tone is playful, teasing almost, but I doubt he’s fooling around for the sake of it. No, if I give him a reason, he will do it. Stab me, tear my chest to shreds. His eyes promise no remorse, no regret. 

I like him a little more for that. Commitment. It’s so rare in humans.

Mr. Ren’s thighs clench around my hips, and the thick heat of his groin tells me he’s rock hard. Which isn’t a surprise, really. He’s a red-blooded man, virile and sexually promiscuous to boot, and men always desire the young, weak, trapped. They like to dominate, and who better than a girl-child with soft eyes and smooth skin. 

Hold up. Did I say weak? 

My lips part, not in threat for once, and I arch my neck, twisting my expression to one of unbearable pain. “Sir, you’re hurting me.”

Predictably, he pauses, eyes searching mine, and I do my best to fill them with hurt, with injury, with sorrow and upset and fear.

I tremble—degrading, yes, but necessary—and let a breath stagger from my throat like a limping man. I inflate myself with that one sentiment until it is all I am: _you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me, please sir, you’re hurting me!_

Fool me twice, shame— Well, we know how this goes. 

Moving as if in a dream, Mr. Ren leans close, so close his lips graze my cheekbone. I want to pull away, and I want to push forward. His breath whispers across my face, and even now—impossibly, ridiculously—I want to suck each exhale into my mouth until I am positively filled with the taste of him. Until his breath becomes mine, until I breathe only because he allows it. Until I may lap at his breath like a kitten laps milk. 

But alas. The tip of the cleaver gently probes my belly button. “You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose trailing across my cheek. 

Everywhere he touches is pure sparks. Everywhere the steel touches is pain. My thoughts are lit from within, searing white and senseless. 

While I’m in the throes of some immortal hell, Mr. Ren unlocks his hand from my throat, and a second later I feel a cold metal... _something_ cinch on my upper arm. The implications freeze me for one long second, and then I buck my hips like a furious stallion. (Pony? Whatever.) Mr. Ren hisses and pushes me back down with all his strength, the cleaver tracing mystery patterns over my belly, like he’s trying to send me a coded message. The cold on my arm is tight and biting and uncomfortable. 

“What is that?” I demand, glaring now, eyes bright red. Hungry. Thirsty. Pissed the fuck off. 

He shushes me, lips grazing my jaw, and adjusts the cuff. Thinking he might be unlatching it, I yank my arms to the side, out of his reach, but he easily catches and restrains me, expression unchanged. Like this is so very run-of-the-mill.

Then he pulls the cleaver from my ribs. 

“This,” he begins calmly, “is a monitor. What the masses call a bioshock.”

The name registers dimly, but I’m too transfixed by the sight of his hand on my arm—pale skin to even paler. Two fingers wrap around my bicep and meet, overlap, squeeze. He is so very big. I know this, and yet—he is so very _big_. If I were human, Mr. Ren would scare the living daylights out of me. 

“The bioshock is new on the market,” he continues, unperturbed by my stillness. Why isn’t he bothered by that? Humans hate it when I go into statue mode. “Worth several thousand dollars, apparently.” 

I wait. He’ll arrive at his point soon, I’m sure.

“For an innocuous little bracelet, it’s deceptively effective.” Mr. Ren sighs and tugs on my shirt, concealing the faint red lines left behind by the cleaver. 

“What does it do?” I ask timidly, because it’s expected of me. The sooner I know what I’m dealing with the faster I can plan an escape.

“As I said,” he murmurs, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ears, fingers lingering on my head. “So very curious.”

Mr. Ren rises to his knees and gracefully climbs from the bed, leaving me prone and confused. He’s...letting me go? No, it can’t be that easy. It never is. So what—?

“The bioshock, when activated, injects an ampoule of liquid silver into the intended victim.” He smiles and casually folds himself into a velvet upholstered armchair. 

_Intended victim._ Vampires. 

“You—” I hesitantly finger the monitor encircling my arm. No, no, this isn’t true. Why haven’t I heard of such a thing? What he's talking about is worse than any weapon I've heard of before. Whenever silver touches my skin, and it's happened only twice so far, the resulting pain is unspeakable. But if silver were to be _injected_ into my body—my body, which is dead and therefore unable to purge unwanted chemicals—then…

Shit. 

“Why would you...do this?” I venture, genuinely appalled. Who the fuck _is_ this man? 

He shrugs. “A precaution.” 

That’s not an answer, but for the first time I’m genuinely terrified. If I disobey him, the bioshock monitor will be activated, and if the bioshock monitor is activated, it won’t matter that I’m already dead. I’ll wish for it again, if only to put an end to the agony. Liquid silver? The idea is so horrifying I don't know what to say. 

Off-balance, I rise from the bed and stand with considerable reluctance. This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to be at a disadvantage. Being a vampire is supposed to change all that. I’m not helpless. I’m not weak. I’m _not_. 

Mr. Ren crooks a finger, beckoning me closer. I totter over, my mind working at five times its usual pace—which is to say, ten times faster than a human’s. I should be able to find a way around this. I should be able to outmaneuver him. He’s only a human, for Christ’s sake! Feeble, idiot-minded, selfish human! What does it say about me that I’m so easily manipulated? Subdued like a rabid animal. How is this _happening_?

I think I'm going to throw up. But I can't afford to lose any blood. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he coos, smoothing a palm over my cheek, along my jawline, until he’s gripping the back of my neck. Squeezing. Forcing me to my knees. I go willingly enough because to go unwillingly suggests powerlessness, and I’m not ready to admit to that. His eyes drift to the bioshock. “It’s for the best, little one. Don’t want you wandering off.” 

Where would I go? Doesn’t he understand? I have no one. I am _alone._

“What do you want?” I whisper, staring blankly at his face. That gorgeous, cruel face. Hard-edged and arrogant and scarred. A face I want to thrash and kiss. A face that is both safe and obscenely dangerous—a hellish juxtaposition. 

He coaxes my head to his thigh, and I rest my cheek in his lap. I can smell him here—the thick, musky heat of him. The arousal. The desire. My head throbs and throbs. 

“What should you do to make it up to me, Rey?” 

My mind blanks because that tone...that tone tells me I won't like the answer. “I’m—not sure what you mean, sir.”

He runs his fingers through my hair, soft and stroking. I close my eyes and imagine us under different circumstances. 

“I’ve told you before. You’ve done some very bad things while I was away, love,” he admonishes, then sighs regretfully. “That makes me unhappy.” 

I don’t respond. You know what makes _me_ unhappy? This, here, on my knees, tagged with an anti-vamp weapon, at the mercy of a man who is turning out to be far more of a wild card than I ever could’ve predicted. A wild card that just might be capable of killing me. 

Mr. Ren hums and untangles his fingers from my hair. This close to his cock, to his heat, I can smell it. What he wants. Despair roils in my stomach. What all men want eventually.

He grasps my chin, thumb probing at my lower lip. I don’t dare show my fangs. He might interpret the posturing as a real threat. 

“Rey,” he says softly, my name like a wish. Like something desired but not yet bestowed. His other hand plays with the zipper of his pants. I pretend not to notice. 

We stare at each other, me on my knees, caged between his long legs, head angled so far back the position would no doubt ache if I were still alive to feel it. Mr. Ren does not break eye contact as he slowly extracts his cock from the confines of his briefs, and I stay very still as he palms his shaft, watching me. The smell of it is strong this close—pungent and heady—and my eyes unconsciously stray to the swollen tip. There’s already a bead of moisture there, waiting, I suspect, for someone to come and lick it off. Despite myself, I sway forward. 

“Your hands,” he orders suddenly, breaking me from my trance. I risk a look at his face. No longer expressionless, he wears the face of a man on the verge of nirvana. It’s unsettling. I haven’t even touched him yet. “Use your hands, little one.”

With a silent apology for his wife, wherever she is, I gently palm his cock, ignoring the leaking tip. My hands are tiny—doll-like—on his thick shaft, and the sight of them gripping the base of his cock sends a slow, thick wave of...something...through my lower abdomen. Lust or desire or want. Something fucked up, to be sure.

But then, that's what I was taught. How to adapt to messy circumstances. 

Mr. Ren’s hand disappears into a pocket, and a moment later he flips open a switchblade. It’s long, four inches, and gleaming with embedded flecks of steel. I swallow reflexively, and he notes the motion with a small, satisfied smile. 

“If you try to bite, I’ll have to stick you with the pointy end,” he warns, flipping the knife in his hand. He pouts mockingly. “That won’t feel very nice, will it, honey?” 

I snarl, baring my fangs, but he simply laughs and waves for me to go on. I’m no one’s _honey_. What a prick.

Annoyed now, I grip his cock and pump a hand up and down his thick length, the skin hot and faintly bumpy with veins. Mr. Ren closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Apparently, he’s unconcerned about me acting on instinct. This inattentiveness should frighten me, but I find that I’m simply curious about the mechanics of my monitor. If he’s not holding a physical remote activator—and I don’t see or sense one near—that must mean the bioshock’s controls are connected neurally. Which means all he has to do is _think_ about using the bioshock, and BAM—an arm full of silver. Fucking clever. Despicable, but clever. 

I purse my lips and continue to pump my hands along Mr. Ren’s impressive length. It’s probably the biggest I’ve ever seen. Thickest, too. Part of me—the Bad Voice part—wants to know what he tastes like. It encourages me to suck him off, as if there’s an actual chance of that happening. No dice, buddy. 

This isn’t my first rodeo. 

When I was thirteen, Unkar started inviting strange men over to the house, and I would have to give them handjobs to settle some stupid debt or other. Many of them demanded that I blow them instead, which was pretty presumptuous if you ask me, but thankfully I was only forced to do that twice—the men brought guns and threatened to shoot Unkar’s head off his shoulders if I didn't. Both men tasted hot and salty, and the second man kept thrusting in my mouth and calling me his “little hole,” even after Unkar warned him to quit it. 

Those experiences hadn’t been terrible, strictly speaking, but both times my jaw ached afterward, and I felt kind of nauseous. Unkar made sure I swallowed their come, and it unsettled my stomach. 

Blowjobs aren’t the worst thing in the world. They make men happy, and when men are happy, they’re more amenable. Malleable. 

I roll my palm over the head of Mr. Ren’s cock, smearing his shaft with pre-come. When I twist and slide my hands, the contact makes a slick, lewd sound that sets my teeth on edge. Mr. Ren’s hands clench on the arms of the chair, his knuckles a brilliant white. His throat bobs, but he doesn’t make a sound. 

He’s probably used to this, anyway. Not that I necessarily want to think about it, but him and his wife no doubt fuck around all the time, and when he’s not at home—when he’s here at his secret playboy mansion—I can only imagine the number of hookers and escorts and prostitutes he’s stuck his dick into. Revolting. (But, in another sense, predictable. Men are so easily satisfied.) 

Sensing he’s nearing his climax, I chastely kiss the tip of his drooling cock. He chokes on a breath, hips bucking, and with a smirk, I trace my tongue over the wet slit, lapping at his arousal. He tastes amazing—salty and warm and strangely sweet, too. Better than the other two men by far. I’m so pleased that I even consider deep-throating him—and what a surprise _that_ would be—but decide to stick with jerking him off like he asked. Don’t wanna overwhelm the poor man.

Mr. Ren grunts and pushes on my head. Thinking he wants me to blow him after all, I slide my mouth over his dick and suck. But he hisses a curse and yanks my head back, fingers digging into my scalp. I whine, lips sticky with come, and he hauls me to my feet. I release his cock, and he immediately picks up where I left off, using one hand to jack off. 

“Pants,” he snaps, holding my forearm. “Take them off.” 

I belatedly remember the bioshock and unzip and shove down my jeans, perplexed. Does he want to fuck me? For a human, that’s...kind of weird, I guess. 

Listen, I know there are plenty of strange vampire kinks out there, but I’ve never actually bore witness to them. Consensual blood-sucking, fang-marking, weapons play. I don’t understand what the humans get out of it. Not to burst anyone’s bubble, but vampires can’t come. They can climax and feel pleasure, but there’s nothing really happening down there. Seems kind of pointless.

My fingers brush the hem of my panties, but Mr. Ren, in a fit of impatience, grabs the waistband and pulls me forward. I nearly trip but manage to regain my balance in a quarter of a second. He pushes his head into my chest and pumps a few more times, groaning and panting. Jesus. 

I stand there, arms at my sides, wondering what the heck is going on. For the thousandth time, where is his _wife_? Is this what he does on his days off?

Without a word of warning, Mr. Ren stretches out the waistband of my panties and stuffs his dick inside. My mouth forms a surprised O—because what the _hell_ —but I don’t stop him. Bioshock, bioshock, wherefore art thou bioshock. His hips bump forward, cock twitching against my pussy folds, as jets of sticky cream coat the seat of my underwear. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, free hand digging into my hip. He braces himself on me as his climax gradually fades, still pumping the last few dregs of come on my vagina and panties. 

I wait for him to finish. 

He inhales slowly, face pressed to my ribs, and rubs his cock along my folds. It’s sticky and wet and steaming, and I sense him shudder when the slick head catches at my entrance. We stay like that for a long time—and by that I mean, like, three minutes. Which is fucking forever. 

Mr. Ren’s fingers brush between my legs, and I will myself into statue mode so I don’t react. Bad Voice encourages me to inch forward until I’m impaled on his cock, whispering, _he won’t stop you, he won’t,_ but I know better. The masturbating is one thing, but actually having him inside me would mean something else, something not altogether _right_. I’ve never had sex, and I don’t think now is the time to start. I’m dead, and he’s... _old_. 

“You did...very well,” he says hoarsely, leaning back. His cock, however, is still stuffed into my panties, and since I don’t mind it there—not that I have much of a choice, really—I stay where I am. “That was good practice, little one.”

“Oh?” I frown and gently stroke the base of his cock. “What are we practicing for, sir?”

He gives me an odd smile and shifts back, cock flopping out of my underwear, leaving behind a string of come. I briefly contemplate sucking it into my mouth—I’m post-pubescent and eternally horny, okay, I'm a slave to my impulses—but reluctantly cast the idea aside when Mr. Ren palms a piece of tissue and sets to cleaning my hands. I watch him in silence.

“Shirt,” he orders, and I roll my eyes but toss away my hoodie and t-shirt. Naked except for my panties, I touch the waistband, figuring I might as well beat him to the punch, but he shakes his head sharply. “Keep those on.”

Mr. Ren cleans himself off, setting aside tissue after tissue until a fluffy tower forms on the side table. He zips himself back into place and rises to his feet. I admire his ability to bounce back. Most men who climax as he did would be out of commission for at least half an hour. 

His slim fingers glide beneath my panties and adjusts the fabric so the seat is pulled tight against my crotch. I wrinkle my nose—it’s very wet and very...squishy. When I shift on my feet, my thighs rub together and make a subtle gushy noise like blood chugging from a gaping wound.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and gently caresses the bioshock on my arm. “Behave, Rey.”

As if I have a choice. I fold my arms across my chest, hiding my small breasts. The cold air doesn’t bother me, but just because I’m a vampire doesn’t automatically mean I’m suddenly immodest. Being naked is an act of vulnerability. Being naked with a _man_ is distressing. 

_You will never be a woman,_ Bad Voice reminds me impishly. _Little girl forever, that’s you._

I scoff. _Yes, thank you for that wonderful reminder, and by the way, where’s Good Voice? Haven’t heard from her recently._

Mr. Ren reenters the bedroom. He’s carrying what looks to be a dress over his arm. For me, I suppose. With a critical eye, I watch as he bunches the soft cotton material in his fists and pulls at the collar. I sigh but raise my arms and allow him to fit the dress over my head. It’s knee-length, a light green—simple and modest and meant for someone years younger. 

My thoughts flicker briefly to its original owner. Perhaps it’s his daughter’s—he must have one. It doesn’t make sense to me for him to be single and childless. Granted, the gown doesn’t smell like a human, just laundry detergent, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve washed it thoroughly beforehand, knowing he was going to dress a tiny vampire hostage in it at some later point. 

Whatever. It’s a fucking nightgown. No need to conduct a full-scale investigation. 

Mr. Ren sinks to his knees and pats my cheek. I scowl.

“Are you hungry, love?”

My eyes snap to his neck. Venom immediately suffuses my mouth, and I nearly float away on the memory of his sweet blood. God, I would wreck mountains for just a taste. I would level entire cities for the opportunity to lick even a single drop.

Degrading, perhaps, but I’ve done more for less. 

Mr. Ren grins slowly. “Ah. Of course you are, greedy girl. Let’s go to the kitchen.” He extends a hand and rises to his full height, towering over me like a dark god. 

I smile, snake my fingers through his, and contemplate all the many methods I will use to torture his wife and kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😬✌🏻


	6. Taunting Unremarkable Humans To Raise My IQ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **maybe Rey has a fork fetish**

Overdramatization is a particular pet peeve of mine, so I will not compare the length of Mr. Ren’s kitchen table to that of an American football field. That would be absurd. However, I _will_ compare it to that of a significantly smaller, but still expansive, American soccer field. That is perhaps still an impractical statement, but hardly an absurd one. 

But I digress. The exact proportions are irrelevant, you see. It’s the distance from end-to-end that matters. And I am seated very far away from the man who seems intent on destroying my undead life. 

It’s safer this way. 

I sit in a high-backed chair at the one end of the outrageous table and mindlessly swing my feet. The motion is soothing, if not faintly distracting. If I swing them just slow enough, I can hit all the right notes in Beethoven’s “Midnight Sonata,” which plays on a constant refrain in the back of my head for no other reason than that it is calming. It often keeps me from killing annoying humans when my bloodlust goes ignored for too long, so I guess it’s a good habit to have, generally speaking.

The nameless chef has already set out placemats, silverware, and ceramic plates. (Of course I keep in mind that ceramic means heavy, and any object with sufficient weight may be weaponized. Then again, a _pencil_ could very well be deadly to a human.) The table is set as if for visiting royalty, not a small un-person who could, at any conceivable moment, rip their heads from their scrawny chicken necks. 

When Mr. Ren and I arrived in the kitchen, hand-in-hand—an arrangement for which I was an unwilling participant—and lightly flushed—on his part, anyway—the chef took one look at the both of us, bowed, and assured her boss that dinner would be ready in no more than fifteen minutes. She seemed utterly terrified, but it was a toss-up as to the source of her fear. I would like to say I am the more fearsome entity, but Mr. Ren does seem to possess quite a few...intimidating characteristics. 

Perhaps it was the both of us together. 

“Sufficient,” he declared after a quick glance at the table, and then he promptly departed for the bathroom, leaving me all by my lonesome. 

He made sure to warn me though, because he’s infuriatingly thorough.

“There’s a GPS chip in the bioshock,” he told me, eyes locked on my face. “Step one foot outside this house and it will activate, Rey.”

“Okay,” I said, and at his frown, added, “...Sir.”

I swear, since the earliest days of civilization, men have gotten off on these pointless titles. _Sir_ and _master_ and _lord_. Makes one wonder how their egos could have possibly gotten so big. 

Ah, well. That only means I have to work all the harder to knock them down a peg or six. 

“Don’t leave. I mean it, little one.” And with a sharp look, he turned and disappeared down the hallway. 

Odd. He seemed incredibly concerned that I _would_ leave, which, frankly, I don't get at all. I had a million opportunities before he clamped the stupid bioshock on my arm. (Fine. A million might be a gross hyperbole—let’s go with four thousand ninety-two. That’s how many escape scenarios I imagined while we walked from the bedroom to the kitchen. Give me ten more minutes and I’ll double the number.) 

I mean, I don't know about him, but I would rather _not_ have pure liquid silver injected into my veins, thanks very much. I’m sadistic at times, but even I have my limits. 

Whatever. His concerns are really not my problem, are they? 

While I wait for Mr. Ren to return, I hum under my breath—“Midnight Sonata” again—and eye the kitchen speculatively. Lots of drawers and cabinet space. Plenty of hidden nooks and crannies. Maybe there’s some way to break this fucking bioshock thing off my arm. There has to be, right? It’s man-made, and men are fallible. 

But when I experimentally scrape a fingernail under the cuff, pain scorches my knuckle. With a hiss, I draw back and examine the device closely. It’s easy to see that except for the side touching my skin, the bioshock is coated in a thin layer of iron. Of course. 

No escape, then. Not yet. 

My mind clicks over to thoughts of Mr. Ren’s family. The nightgown I’m wearing is proof that he has at least one child. A daughter, presumably. But I’ve yet to find evidence of a wife, even though I know there must be one. It’s easier to convince myself that he is already entangled with another human than to contemplate the alternative: that he is unattached. 

Available. 

( _For what?_ Bad Voice demands slyly. _Available for_ what, _dollface?_

I imagine in vivid detail pushing her into a meat grinder. She falls silent.) 

But that theory simply doesn’t make sense. I _know_ he’s married. These posh society men always are. And not to sing his praises—the devil himself knows he doesn’t deserve it—but Mr. Ren is young and handsome and successful, if his clothes and mansion and personal staff are any indication. There’s certainly a degree of intelligence in that well-groomed head of his, too, else how could he have subdued me so easily? He must be married. Women settle for far less in this world. 

( _You should start with her fingernails._ Bad Voice again. _I bet they’re manicured._ ) 

A single image pops into my head—pliers. Black and gleaming and ready for use. Then a razor. Then a machete, a sledgehammer, an axe. Humans are easy to torture. It’s almost comically unfair. They are nothing but sacks of yellow fat and blood. Poke a big enough hole and they will deflate like a sad balloon. Not much of a challenge, frankly.

Except for this man. 

Well. Regardless. If the house itself fails to present me with an option for escape (the four thousand and ninety-two other options are pleasant to imagine but not viable in my current position), I may have to coerce the staff into giving me information, which shouldn’t be difficult. They’re already terrified of me; the poignant scent of their fear drifts through the quiet mansion like a layer of fine dust, unseen but just this side of tangible. I often find myself licking my lips in anticipation of a meal before I’m reminded—oh yes! Mustn’t eat the staff. 

Mustn’t do this, mustn’t do that—there are too many rules here. 

Annoyed with all this waiting around—I’m immortal, to be sure, but my tolerance is significantly lower than it was when I was human—I fiddle with a fork and wonder what the wife’s name is. Something outrageously feminine, I’m sure. Lucy. Genevive. Marissa, perhaps. 

The fork clatters to the table. My lips curve, and I nod to myself. Yes, that’s it. _Marissa._ A name that hisses, that slides off the tongue like a snake through grass. A formidable name, if one considers leather Balmain handbags and vintage Chanel formidable. 

Perhaps Marissa will scream when she sees me. I’m told the red eyes really have a terrifying sort of effect. _Demonic,_ the humans whisper. _Unnatural._

These compliments are tiresome. 

For lack of anything better to do, I practice being still in uncomfortable positions. Arms raised, legs bent, head tilted at an odd angle. A silly exercise, for I can’t actually tire, but oddly therapeutic anyway. Two minutes and nine seconds later, Mr. Ren re-enters the room, but from the opposite hallway he initially disappeared down. That’s strange. 

“Weren’t you relieving yourself?” I don’t look up. “Sir.” 

I’m twirling the fork now. Slow enough for the human to see. Their eyes are like infant eyes—unable to track or focus on any one object for more than a few seconds at a time. Truly pathetic. It’s a genuine wonder humans have managed to remain the dominant species for so very long. 

Mr. Ren doesn’t respond. No surprise there. He circles to my front and lays a large piece of fabric across my lap. “Go change.”

The fork isn’t made of silver or iron. It’s a rather strange combination of wood and plasteel. That is, plastic and steel, a resource very specific to the southeastern coastline. Easily bendable. Still, I imagine it can do quite a bit of damage, if wielded correctly. There are three other forks within my immediate reach. 

Silly chef.

Mr. Ren crouches by my chair when I don’t move. His footsteps are light, his breathing steady and subdued. He’s crowding me, and he knows that I know. 

Irritation grinds through my head, interrupting my calculated twirling. So he expects me to jump to it like a trained dog, then, does he? At a moment’s notice just _leap_ to my feet and nod my head, tongue lolling, eager to please master? 

Oh, how I would so love to tear into that smooth white neck. 

“Would you like to see?”

I glare moodily at my empty plate, still twirling, twirling, twirling the fork. Faster now. Must make a decision. “See what in particular?” 

“How well the bioshock works.” He trails a light finger over my wrist, and I quietly seethe. I don’t appreciate his weird desire to touch me. Why do men think they _own_ girls? Just because I seem small and delicate and doe-eyed does not mean I can’t also find sixteen different ways to very painfully extract a tooth and force him to eat it. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate.” 

Fine. He doesn’t have to spell it out for me. Clothes or injection. What a choice, indeed. Obviously he cares very much for my well-being, wouldn’t you say? 

Ha! He does not care, for it is a universal fact that I will always be alone. 

Some small part of me cracks. “I’m to be a doll, then?”

Infuriating. Demeaning. To think he may do whatever he pleases just because he had the foresight to use an anti-vamp weapon on me. My fingers yearn to snap the fork into tiny little pieces. Annihilate something into nothing. 

“What’s given you that indication?” he asks, smoothing the hem of the—dress?—over my knees. Through layers of silk, I feel the heat of his hand, his pliant skin, the shift of joints and muscles. Every part of him, so very breakable. Like glass, except more fragile. Threads of silk. A puff of cloud, perhaps. 

“Let’s see. Dressing me like a little plaything, feeding me—” I gesture with the fork to my empty plate “—or at least pretending to, tracking my whereabouts. Need I go on?” I flex my fingers and decide to flick a nearby knife at his face. Pierce an eye. Scoop the jelly from his socket and slurp it like soup. “Though that last one, the tracking, is more in line with caring for a _mutt_ than a doll, isn’t it? I’ll be collared and fenced in too. Next you’ll be whistling for me.” 

“And will you come when I call?” Mr. Ren straightens to his full height and extends one hand, palm up. Waiting.

Decisions, decisions. 

I examine his face. It is hard and remote and unflinching. That expression tells me that there will come a point when I test him too much, too far, and he will press the button to activate the bioshock. Gleefully. Remorselessly. 

_Will you come when I call?_

“You’ve taken that choice from me, haven’t you?” Baring my teeth, I slap the fork into his hand and cross my arms tightly. My fingers dig furrows in my arms. 

He hums a note of approval and strokes my hair, his hand resting on the back of my head. It’s a nice, grounding weight, but I don’t acknowledge him. That’s what he wants, and I’m loath to give him anything he desires. 

After several seconds tick by in a mutually oppressive silence, he finally ventures over to his end of the table. The fork dangles from his fingertips like he’s already forgotten it’s there. 

Well, good! I’m not really in the mood for soupy eyeballs, anyway. 

When he’s seated, napkin on his lap, fingers steepled before his face, Mr. Ren smiles benignly. “The dress?” He nods at the bundle of fabric in my lap. “Please. Do take your time.”

Instantly incensed, I surge to my feet. He’s lucky the fork is no longer in my possession. Or a knife or a saw or a fucking _axe_. 

Oh yes, what a big man, to be ordering around a newborn vampire, one who barely hit puberty as a human. What a power trip for him to hold sway over little old me! 

We’re a rare breed, us girls, and when we _are_ turned, it’s always on purpose. To be kept as companions or used as escorts or...well, there are countless other unsubtle terms for _slaves_ , aren’t there? Whenever a young girl is turned, it’s always _a crime of passion_ , never _a gruesome fucking injustice._

He wants me to get changed? Here and now? Fine. As you wish, Master. 

Shaking with repressed rage, I turn my back on him and peel off my clothes. The nightgown, socks, and even— No, no. At the last second I decide to keep my panties on. They’re fresh, and there’s never any telling when I’ll need to improvise. The material is thin and unremarkable for the most part, but it’ll do in a pinch. I may be forced to use it as a gag or perhaps restraints. Something to choke or smother—you know, the usual things. 

An undead girl can never be too careful. 

Mr. Ren doesn’t react to my surprise strip-tease. (Not much of a tease, though, am I? Tossing clothes around all willy-nilly with no regard for performance or stage presence really does not a sexy vision make.) Besides, aren’t strip-teases supposed to be arousing? Mr. Ren’s heart beats at the same steady rate, and his breathing remains smooth and unstaggered—I monitor both as I wiggle into the dress. To be honest, I imagine this is a familiar sight for him—a woman undressing before his eyes, for his pleasure, at his command. 

_Oh,_ Bad Voice tsks reproachfully. _But you will never be a—_

Oh, fuck _off._

For once, the annoying bitch who lives in my head holds her silence, and for that I’m grateful. There are only so many minor annoyances I can stand at one time. Since my tolerance has been rather abruptly dialed down to the lowest setting the second I met him, it should come as no shock that Mr. Ren is already using up his daily allowance. 

The [dress](https://twitter.com/naboojakku/status/1331273576402612227) is a simple confection of silk and chiffon, decorated with grayscale florals. It’s all black, naturally, I suspect to hide any suspicious bloodstains. Good on him for thinking ahead. Sleeveless, too, with a high neckline. The bodice is tight and flares out at the waist in a pleated ripple to an asymmetrical hem—short in the front and long enough in the back to gently sweep the floor. It must’ve cost a pretty penny, based on the silver initials etched on the miniscule label. 

Slightly mollified now that I know his wallet’s hurting—even if only a little—I slide the dress over my head and adjust until everything’s where it needs to be, then yank on the zipper. From this angle, I can only manage to close it halfway before the damn thing catches. 

Mr. Ren snaps his fingers. “Come.”

 _Should I bark, too?_ My teeth grind furiously together—at this rate I’ll blunt my canines—and I lower my brows as I stalk over to his end of the table. Bad enough to be manhandled and humiliated, but I should’ve guessed he would go a step further and actually treat me like an animal. Something small and inferior. Something too stupid to fight back. 

_Fight back._

The words ring in my ears, and for an endless second I am helplessly caught between two worlds. The mansion, steeped in blacks and whites and the occasional shock of red...and somewhere else. An unknown place, somewhere warm and wet, where the air is perfumed with the native flowers of our little city. Yet there is also terror in this memory— _is_ it a memory?—and a not insignificant amount of hate. 

Rage. Loathing. _Contempt._

But more than anything, more even than the heavy weight on my chest as whatever is going on here presses down on my ribs, I feel a vicious sense of determination. To kick and punch my way free of my constraints, to bite and howl at the sky, to scream until my voice gives out. 

To fight back.

But the memory—it _must_ be a memory—fades quickly, and when I blink, Mr. Ren swims into view. He’s watching me with an odd expression on his face, and I realize that at least several long seconds have passed. Maybe as many as ten. 

Shit. 

His big hands settle on my hips, and we stare at each other in silence. An antique grandfather clock ticks in the foyer, and from two streets over I hear the loud rumble of a diesel truck as it accelerates on the highway. 

“Where did you go?” he murmurs, smoothing a hand across my stomach. 

_Deflect._ Smart Voice this time, and damn am I glad to see her. (Hear her?) _You must deflect._

“I’m not obligated to tell you that, sir.” I touch a finger to his lapel, then immediately retract it when his eyes widen. Fine, okay. Don’t bioshock me, please. 

The chef enters the kitchen a moment later, holding a silver serving tray above her head. She narrows her eyes at me, her round face scrunched disapprovingly. Hm. Okay, then. I shall call her Potato, for her resemblance to said vegetable. 

With a flourish, she sets the platter down in front of Mr. Ren and removes the cover. Scents accost my nose—carrots and spinach and meats and grease and spicy sauces. A veritable buffet. 

A veritable _nightmare,_ really. 

My lip curls with disgust, and I turn my face to the side. A cloud of steam rises to the ceiling, spreading the scent until it’s everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling, room to room. If my gag reflex was still accessible, I would surely vomit. Human food is like literal garbage to me. Like gritty cinder blocks. Hard and bland and dull. Disgusting. Unappetizing. You name it. 

Potato moves towards the opposite end of the table—my end. She’s going to feed the resident vampire too—how nice. Mr. Ren’s fingers are hooked into the skirt of my dress, so I can’t move to meet her (well, unless I wish to rip them off, which...don’t tempt me), but that doesn’t matter. He shakes his head, and Potato steps back from the table. “That won’t be necessary.”

She nods, bows, and hastily exits the kitchen. I stare at my empty plate. A whole lot of fanfare for nothing, huh? Farewell, Potato. 

With great ease—humiliating ease, frankly—Mr. Ren lifts me into his lap, much as a mother would an infant from its highchair. I’m placed on the seat of his slacks, my legs pushed together under my dress, and his arms cage me on either side. He picks up a fork, a knife, resettles his napkin, and ducks his head so he can nuzzle my hair. I hold myself stiffly as he breathes me in. 

“You smell lovely.” He continues to trail his nose through my hair, slowly now, like he’s savoring it. I’m not quite sure what he’s scenting—the last time I took a shower was ten days ago. I broke into an empty apartment on the mainland for some clothes and decided to finally wash myself free of the roadkill stench. Since then I haven’t gotten into anything particularly abhorrent, but still—there’s a very high likelihood I don’t smell like fresh meadow flowers. 

“Thank you, sir,” I chirp, rolling my eyes. 

“Oh, no, no,” Mr. Ren tsks disapprovingly. “I saw that.” He lifts the hem of my skirt and snakes a hand inside. 

I’m startled by this sudden intrusion. He switches from indifferent overseer to affectionate lover and back again like it’s his damn job. His fingers trail lightly across my inner thighs, and when he cups between my legs, I wiggle uncomfortably but don’t resist. The bioshock on my arm blazes a constant reminder to behave. Death, thy name is silver. 

“I wonder…” he murmurs, trailing off distractedly. 

“What?” I ask tersely. His hand is very big and very warm there, and I unthinkingly push my thighs together. Mm. Feels...good. It’s counterintuitive, but—I like having his fingers on me. Maybe he’ll take it a step further and put them _in_ me. I’m no sex expert, but—like any self-respecting red-blooded American—I _have_ dabbled in certain Pornhub categories on occasion. 

“Why am I so taken with you?” He sounds genuinely upset. 

I hiccup a laugh. “Oh, that’s easy. I’m entertaining.”

He scoffs and slips a piece of meat into his mouth. I listen to him chew and swallow, and the noise is so very similar to that of blood gushing down my throat that I shiver. He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, are you hungry, love?” He coos softly and plants a kiss on the side of my neck. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your fill very soon.”

“I will?” Intrigued, I shuffle in his lap until I can swing my legs sideways and see his face. He adjusts his grip on my sex, the heat of his body scorching through my panties, and chews on a piece of meat, watching me steadily.

“You will,” he concedes, tipping a glass of water against his lips. Despite myself, I’m riveted. The water wets his mouth and disappears past his white teeth, his throat bobbing thickly. I get an insane urge to bite his Adam’s apple—not for a drink, but just to, I don’t know...be playful, I guess? What the hell! 

I’m losing focus. 

With difficulty, I shake my head, narrow my eyes, and touch the corner of his mouth. He offers me the glass with a raised eyebrow, but when I frown, he moves it back to the table. Is he serious? Obviously I don’t need _water_. Jerk. 

“Come here,” he orders, voice suddenly impatient, and I lean close, too eager for my own good. 

He slides a hand to the back of my neck and grips tightly—asserting control—before allowing me to bridge the gap. I trace my lips across his, lingering drops of water wetting our mouths. Before I talk myself out of it, I press my lips lightly to his mouth. Just for a second. Long enough for me to realize we’re kissing. He tastes like all my favorite things in one.

Then I’m withdrawing, turning my eyes to the table at large, acting disinterested and indifferent. Nothing to see here, folks, just a man and his pet vamp. Curiously, Mr. Ren’s heart misses several beats, but in no time it’s back to its familiar rhythm. Probably indigestion or something. 

He removes his hand from between my legs, and I’m immediately upset by the loss. But then he lifts it to my stomach, pushing aside fabric, and lays it flat, applying pressure like he wants to push me into him. I dip my hand beneath my skirts and gently place it over top of his own. My fingers are barely half his length, but I squeeze them lightly, a reminder: _You’re strong, but so am I._

A low growl rumbles through Mr. Ren’s chest, and although he shifts in his seat, he doesn’t shove me off. “Don’t tease me, little one. That won’t end well for you.”

Of course it won’t. Honestly, tell me something I don’t know. Bioshock, stake through the heart, sunlight, whatever. I know the drill.

Instead of arguing, I shrug and lay my head on his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. He’s sending quite a few mixed signals, and it’s tiring me out trying to decode them. Not for the first time, I wish to sleep, if only for the chance to escape for a few hours. Any existence deprived of an unconscious reprieve is a torturous one. 

And fuck—it’s only been ten months.

We need to introduce a new topic. “Do you want to kill those men or something?”

“Those men.” It’s not a question, but I sense the need for clarification. He twirls a piece of spinach on his fork but doesn’t bring it to his mouth. Unthinkingly, I tilt my chin up to better see his face, and he inhales sharply. I’m very close to his neck, of course, and his pulse surges hypnotically. 

“The ones on your list. Dameron and Phasma and…” Venom floods my mouth. The temptation to consume rises. I could bite him before he thinks to activate the bioshock. It’ll still hurt like hell when he does manage to press the controls, but at least I’ll get another taste. 

“Snoke,” he finishes for me.

“Mm. Yes, Snoke.” Scarlet and crimson and ruby and garnet. The colors twirl in my mind like invisible dancers. 

“Let’s go with...or something.” 

I huff, momentarily distracted by his refusal to give me answers, and he goes still for a moment. Is it fear? Uncertainty? Perhaps I’ll take this a step further. 

With a soft exclamation, I nuzzle his neck and curl myself into a tight little ball in his lap. He doesn’t stop me when I begin to mouth at his jugular. God, even his skin tastes sublime. 

“Love,” he says in a strangled voice. But I _need_ him, and now my mouth is suctioned to his neck, fangs held at bay through sheer force of will as I suck and lick the tender skin of his throat, run my teeth along his collarbones, drag my lips over the hint of stubble beneath his chin. “Rey.”

“Please, sir,” I mumble into his neck, sucking harshly on the skin. It blooms red, then gradually purple, and in no time at all faint bruises pepper his throat. I ache all over at the sight and curl into his chest, pawing at him. Big and warm and yummy. 

His arms twine around my body, but not to fend me off—no, instead he draws me even closer, our bodies molded together. I whimper and suck harder, slobbering on his neck like a half-crazed newborn vamp—but aren’t I?—and he tips his head back with a groan and manages a garbled, “ _Fuck._ ” 

That's too much for me. My fangs shoot down. 

“ _That’s enough_ ,” he booms in a voice like thunder, and suddenly his hand is gripping my neck, and he’s jerking me back and away like I’m nothing more than a limp ragdoll. 

But I don’t want to go. It’s _nice_ here. I whine and curl my fingers into his shirt. He’s pushing me away, eyes black, and I don’t like that, not one bit. Changing tack, he shifts his chair forward until I’m pinned between the table edge and his body. Of course, I could easily break free—snap the table to pieces, if necessary—but that would only make the situation worse. If he’s driven too far, he might decide to release the silver into my arm. 

“I told you to wait,” he scolds me in a low voice, composed again. His body is so tense I could very well be sitting on marble. “This impatience just won’t do.”

“But I’m _hungry,_ ” I whine, squirming and gnashing my teeth. The need for his blood—sweet and thick and mind-numbingly delicious—overrides my other senses, so even as I dimly acknowledge my behavior, I don’t care enough to course correct. 

“You’re always hungry,” he says dismissively, picking up his fork. “I need you to sit still now. Can you do that for me?”

Sensing defeat, I grumble but sink against his chest, crossing my arms and doing my best to ignore the sounds of him eating. There’s lettuce and meat and some spicy red sauce, and the flexing of his throat muscles as he swallows is amplified in the otherwise crypt-quiet house.

Mr. Ren pets my arm, fingers trailing softly along my exposed skin. As if he hasn’t just yelled at me, pushed me away. This is precisely what I mean about mixed signals. Now he’s all snuggly and soft. Gradually his hand strays to my waist, and he holds me against him while he chews and swallows, chews and swallows, chews—

“Are you done yet, sir?” I ask politely, tipping my head against his shoulder. His throat bobs once more, but he doesn’t deign to look down. 

“You’re restless.”

I frown. “Is that supposed to be an insult or—”

“Merely an observation.” He dabs at his mouth with a cloth napkin and drops it on the table. 

“It’s true.” I shrug and fiddle with the tablecloth. It's silver, which seems a wild choice compared to the monotone scheme of the rest of his house. “I’m bored when you’re not here.”

 _When I can’t slurp your blood like a smoothie,_ I think dreamily. Though it’s probably best to keep such details to myself. 

“Mm. We can’t have that.” Mr. Ren plays with a strand of my hair, twirling it around his long finger. I ignore the instinctive urge to snap at the limb and instead smooth down the skirt of my dress like I’m very concerned about wrinkles. Why am I wearing this again? 

“I’m still hungry,” I murmur, growing increasingly upset despite myself. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He’s eaten—now it’s my turn. That’s how this is supposed to work. Doesn’t he know that I won’t survive without blood? Why is he _depriving me_? 

Mr. Ren plants a light kiss on my head. “Listen. I have a proposal for you, Rey.”

A proposal? I perk up immediately. That sounds promising...and slightly dangerous. As a vamp, I live for danger. (Metaphorically speaking.) All my former exhaustion flees. Why sleep when you could, I don’t know, knock down utility poles on I-90 or shear a sheep with your teeth instead? (Haven’t done that last one yet, but it’s on my wishlist. Sheep are surprisingly difficult to locate in a city in the deep south.)

I lick my lips and studiously avoid his eyes. “Oh?” 

Mr. Ren draws my hands together and clasps them between his own. It’s like I’m wearing an oversized pair of mittens. He sets his chin on my shoulder, and when he speaks, his breath blows right into my ear, quiet like a whisper, low like a secret. 

“These three people I’ve named,” he begins calmly. “They’re bad. Very bad.”

“ _Very_ bad?” I tip my head with faux concern, but his chin digs into the thin skin where my neck and shoulder meet, and I stop moving again. Message received. 

“Yes, little one,” he says seriously. “Very bad.”

“What are you going to do?” I push out my lower lip and blink up at him. Innocent as can be. “Are you going to hurt them, sir?”

A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Are you playing with me, love?”

“Nuh-uh.” I blink again and widen my eyes. He wants me to be a doll? Perhaps I’ll take him up on that offer. 

“I think you are.” His voice lowers to a rumble. I sense a dangerous undercurrent to his words now. “Look at you, batting your eyes at me, smiling so pretty. You're teasing.”

“I’m not, sir! I promise.” He’s proving difficult to manipulate, but then, this shouldn’t come as a surprise, should it? He’s far too clear-headed for such blatant trickery. This is a man not easily fooled by a pretty face or pretty words. 

Doesn’t mean I won’t fucking try. 

Mr. Ren sighs. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you, Rey.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I simper, nuzzling his chest, pressing my nose to his clean linen shirt, near his collar. Inching my way back to the goal. “I’m listening.”

“We’ll see.” He tightens his grip on my hands until they curl into two overlapping fists. “I want you to kill someone for me.”

“Three someones?” 

He laughs quietly into my neck. “Such a clever girl, aren’t you? That’s right. Three someones. Those businessmen—that woman, too—need to be...eradicated.”

I sense he chooses this particular word with careful purpose. Not just _killed_ or _taken down_ or even _slaughtered_. Eradicated. Which is really just another word for exterminate. 

One of my favorite words. 

“Why haven’t _you_ done it?” I ask suspiciously. It’s a good question. Obviously he has boundless resources, so what’s the issue? What’s holding him back? 

Maybe the act of murder makes him queasy. Who’s to say for sure? Though I’ll be gravely disappointed if he turns out to be one who dictates rather than one who acts. One must be responsible for one’s own desires. Bloodthirsty vampirism has taught me this, at least. 

If I kill someone, I better be prepared to own it. 

“The opportunities have been...few,” he tells me, and although his tone remains unchanged, his body stiffens beneath me. Lying, or simply omitting a truth? 

“So you want me to kill them,” I clarify, sniffing at the smooth hollow of his throat. “Dameron and Tahreen and Snoke. Three someones.”

“Yes.” Mr. Ren’s arm tightens around my waist. “I’ll help you, of course, but the act must come from you.”

Easy. I shrug. “Okay.”

He laughs again, and the sound is tinged with disbelief. “So easily swayed? I expected more of a fight.”

“Well, I assume I’ll be recompensed somehow.” Although he can’t see my face, my eyes narrow, mouth twisting into a fierce scowl. Nothing in this world is free. I won’t just go breaking bones and slicing jugulars without some sort of payment. That’s stupid and naive. 

“Of course.” He swivels me sideways in his lap again and guides my mouth to his neck. A shiver wracks my body. Is this it? “My blood for your involvement. Straightforward enough, I expect.” 

Scarlet and crimson and ruby and garnet. When I close my eyes on those rare occasions my constant vigilance allows me to lower my defenses, all I see are rivers of red. Now, those rivers have a name. _Kylo._ Every time I think of blood, my mind flashes it like a neon billboard: Kylo. In the short time I have known my clever human man, the two words have become synonymous.

Blood. Kylo. 

_Mine._

Already near senseless with lust, I drag my tongue across his Adam’s apple, fangs clicking into place. “You promise?” 

“For you?” Mr. Ren holds the back of my head and presses hard until my mouth is latched to the side of his neck. “Yes.”

And the walls between us collapse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **our girl has a one track mind**

**Author's Note:**

> ~~say hi! (or come yell at me)~~  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naboojakku)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/naboojakku/?hl=en)


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